


The Shadow of the Sayanara

by KeepingKaya



Series: The Shadow of the Sayanara [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, BBC, Case, Gen, John - Freeform, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 100,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeepingKaya/pseuds/KeepingKaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A shipwreck survivor is the last remaining key to uncovering the true circumstances of the vessel's disappearance, and Sherlock Holmes must find the truth before the sinister happenings unleash a deadly threat upon London. Meanwhile, the newest addition to 221B Baker Street must solve her own deadly case and protect the ones she cares for from a lethal obsession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Washed Ashore

This wasn’t where Greg Lestrade wanted to be at ten o’clock at night. The coastal gale shredded through his useless windbreaker, which flapped pathetically against his body despite trying to anchor it to his frame by shoving his numb hands into his pockets. Dark turbulent clouds blocked any sort of natural light that might have been in the bleak skyline, only a hint of the storm forecasted to hit the area. Just beyond the shore, the black waters of the sea were frothing like the possessed. “I want us out of here soon, Andersen,” the inspector barked.

“Give this storm another couple of hours, and there won’t be anything left of the crime scene to investigate,” Andersen replied, his beady eyes restless from behind his forensic mask. He stood, the plastic suit rippling with bitter gusts. “Not that it’d be much of a loss—it’s pretty clear what happened here. Anyone with eyes could tell you that this was a suicide.”

Lestrade’s mouth tightened into a line as he stared down at the body. Andersen certainly wasn’t too far off—this sort of thing was common in this area. For some reason, desperate souls like this poor sap thought a quiet shore-side cabin in an isolated area like this was prime real estate to off themselves. This man had rented the cabin two days ago, set up a lawn chair facing the rocky beach, and then swallowed a bottle of prescription medication while watching the bloody sunset. His coworkers had reported him missing when he hadn’t shown up to work nearly two weeks ago; based on how the man’s $150 tie fluttered against his corpulent stomach, Lestrade guessed it had been a compulsive decision. “Then get what you need from him, and let’s get him out of here.” Lestrade lifted his eyes tersely. “The landlord’s getting testy.”

Beyond the boundaries of the garish yellow crime scene tape, the portly landlord stood with his back to the cabin, staring moodily out to sea. He was the type of man who was perfect to get a pint with at the pub, but absolutely loathsome to work with in a police investigation. A gruff man with a sandy beard and rough clothing, Lestrade had known exactly what sort of man they were dealing with when the landlord had called in the body with all the tone of a disgruntled hotel guest who had found a dirty towel on the floor.

“He must be used to this by now,” Andersen commented, stepping back from the body to allow a camera flash to engulf the crime scene. “Must be downright awful for business.”

“I highly doubt he puts this sort of thing on the brochure,” Lestrade mumbled. The inspector sighed, turning towards the darkening coast. “I’ll go see if he needs anything, besides a strong drink and some peace and quiet.”

“Don’t we all,” Andersen barked back as another bright flash covered the body. Lestrade took swift choppy strides to the crime-scene tape, ducking under the flimsy boundary. Gravel crunched under the soles of his shoes, barely audible over the gusts that whipped at his coat collar. Hopefully, this whole mess could be wrapped up soon before the storm swallowed them all. The inspector slowed only when his footsteps could be heard over the wind by the weathered landlord. “Mr. Sard?”

“Are you all just about done over there?” the man spat, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. “Or did you want to take pictures of the backs of the photo frames, too?”

“We’re just making sure to be thorough,” Lestrade assured him, shouting slightly over the wind. “We will be off your property as soon as we get all the evidence we need.”

Sard scowled, spitting an excess of mucus into the dirt at his feet. “Talk a walk with me,” the landlord growled in that rough voice, turning towards the coast.

Lestrade’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m sorry, I don’t think--”

“I can’t just stand around here and watch you all nitpick my property all night, and I need someone to come with me to make sure the ocean doesn’t swallow me up. Now walk with me.”

Lestrade hesitated, not sure how much he trusted this character with the sea as the only witness and a nearby storm as a perfectly good alibi for an “accident” to occur. At this point, however, Lestrade didn’t really feel like he had much choice; besides, Andersen and Donovan could manage the scene for a few minutes. Reluctantly, the inspector clenched his coat around his torso, and followed behind Sard’s ungraceful gait.

Sard led the inspector to a roughly beaten trail that wound out to the coast; the man’s broad-shouldered build seemed out of place for such an agile path. The ground beneath the men’s feet softened as they walked, slowly transcending from the coarse gravelly lot to the smooth manicured loam to finally the malleable grey sands that pebbled the patches of shoreline. Lestrade felt his feet struggle to find purchase and further hinder his stride, but ahead of him Sard marched on with perhaps greater grace, even with his bulky frame. Lestrade could practically feel the cold particulates of sand creep into the pores of his skin; it would be at least a week before the last traces of sand left his shoes. Ahead of him, Sard never turned around to check on his companion, only flashing a hard grin as he glanced side to side, nearly gleeful with the salted wind against his skin again. The muscles of his back twitched as the landlord drew a lighter and a carton of cigarettes from his pocket, striking the flame to life in his massive hand. “Care for one, inspector?” Sard barked over his shoulder.

Lestrade stumbled to Sard’s side, his frown already tasting of sand. At this point, he would have preferred to put anything in his lungs besides the salt in the gales, which were worse out here. The inspector grunted and gave a brisk nod, and with a laugh, Sard placed a cigarette into the man’s cold fingers. “I’ll take it you’re not a sailor, inspector,” Sard yelled over the gusts.

“Not exactly,” Lestrade replied, gratefully bringing the unlit cigarette to his lips. Sard lifted the lighter as if to light the inspector’s cigarette, but paused before the flame reached the tip. Lestrade glanced up at the landlord, who was staring over Lestrade’s head. “Sard...?”

Sard’s gaze remained fixated down the shore, his jaw opened slightly and tersely. Lestrade turned (with some impatience) to see what Sard found so captivating. At first, all he saw was the winding stretch of gray sand melting into the dark tongue of the sea which continuously lapped at the shoreline. Lestrade’s eyes continued to scan the coast, trying to find anything that would have caught the attention of his burly companion. His eyes narrowed against the sharp particles in the wind, blinking wildly to force sand out his sight. His eyes swept the shore furiously, nearly abandoning the task until his gaze flickered up towards the rocks where part of the nearby cliff had fallen into the sea. Lestrade dropped his cigarette.

Sard pushed past him before Lestrade had time to order him to retrieve help, the gruff man’s panicked gait still unusually graceful on the sand. Lestrade followed behind him, still struggling to make his legs cooperate on the surface of the sand; instincts, however, had forced him to forget his frustration with it at the moment. Sard would reach the rocks first, despite Lestrade’s desperate flailings—he would have to wait until he arrived at the rocks to phone in his team.

It was a wonder that Sard had seen her at all—her skin was deathly pale, blending into the bleached rocks behind her that cradled her twisted body. Her emaciated limbs clung to the rocks, anchoring her in place. Her clothes were torn and half-frozen, drenched with ocean water and worn by the harsh winds—it looked as if the sea had just spit her out. Wild blonde hair cascaded around her face, soaked into thick tangled locks around her neck. From a distance, Lestrade had feared that they had found a corpse—as he came closer, however, it became clear that the girl was visibly shaking, her flesh trembling desperately. Sard reached her first, seemingly unsure of what to do; as Lestrade neared, it became clear as to why. The girl was alive, but barely; her body quivered uncontrollably and clutched to the rocks. She was clearly hypothermic and practically half-dead; her entire frame was still saturated with ocean water, and from behind chattering lips she was speaking incoherently, her voice barely audible over the growing storm. Lestrade knelt in front of her, and found with great surprise that her eyes were even open; her face was gaunt and wild, green eyes frantic and almost inhuman. Her sentences were nonsense, a long string of random syllables and sounds that she clung to urgently as if they were of the greatest pertinence.

Lestrade stood, thrusting his hand out to Sard. “Give me your coat,” he ordered, the tone of his voice huskier and firm. Sard complied immediately, shrugging off his wool garment and placing it heavily in the inspector’s palm. Lestrade draped the fabric over the girl’s thin shoulders, lifting her to pull it fully around her. Her body was rigid in his hands, her skin cold and unforgiving as the rocks surrounding her. She didn’t respond to his touch; she didn’t seem to know anyone else was there. Lestrade gingerly knelt again, holding the girl in a sitting position in one hand while reaching into his pocket with the other to retrieve his phone.

“Has she gone mad?” Sard rasped disbelievingly, his face a scarred and weathered mixture of fear and indignation. Lestrade ignored him, fumbling furiously in his pocket. His fingertips had just grazed the cool exterior of the phone when he felt a thin hand fiercely grab the front of his coat. Lestrade’s eyes darted upwards quickly; the girl was staring into his face now, breathing violently enough that Lestrade nearly expected her fragile ribs to shatter with every inhale . Her eyes were still frantic from behind knotted tendrils of hair, but they were now transfixed on him, seemingly horrified and relieved at the real live person holding her. Her voice lowered, but as Lestrade strained to hear her, the first recognizable word from her mouth sent a cold stab down his spine.

“What did you say...?” Lestrade half-whispered, his stare eagerly searching the girl’s expression.

Her fingers tightened, mouth trembling with hypothermia and fear before she took a deeper breath and collected the first cognizant four syllables she could form:

“ _Moriarty.”_

**********

The screen of John’s phone flashed for the twenty-second time as he flipped the device into his calloused palm. It rolled over and circled again, the edge clipping against his fingernails before the twenty-third glare came right on cue.

“Are you expecting a call back?”

John’s eyes flickered upwards, his jaw tight. The bemusement in his flatmate’s low voice did nothing to settle his nerves. “Lestrade doesn’t usually withhold information like that,” the doctor snipped through a narrow mouth. “Not from you.”

“I doubt it was his fault.” Sherlock shrugged. “The information likely never occurred to him in the first place. Such a fickle little mind, so little room for retention, it probably slipped his thoughts.”

“That’s not what it sounded like,” John retorted, frown tightening as Sherlock’s complete disinterest in the situation. “What in the world can he have to show us that he can’t describe over the phone?”

“Something fun, presumably,” Sherlock replied, eyes flickering out the cab window with the first tiny gleam of excitement since they had entered the vehicle.

“You would think it was fun,” John grumbled, turning back to his own window in distaste. Sherlock glanced over briefly.

“As do you.”

“This is not my idea of _fun_ , Sherlock.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I am here because the Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard requested I be.” John glared exasperatedly, turning back to Sherlock, who had returned to lazily watching the passing traffic outside of his window.

“I don’t believe that for a moment.”

“Why _else_ would I be here?”

“Your beloved ‘chief inspector of Scotland Yard’ calls you spontaneously to the hospital with the greatest urgency, and you aren’t even slightly curious?”

“People might be dead, Sherlock.”

“One can hope,” Sherlock drawled, turning his face to look out the front window. The cab slowed, and John clenched his mouth shut before he could reply. He grasped the handle before the vehicle had stopped completely and silently stepped out, a gesture not missed by Sherlock who watched him with careful eyes as his flatmate huffed out of the cab. Sherlock removed the wad of cash he had tucked into his pocket and passed it quietly to the driver before departing himself, his movements a bit more smooth and genteel that John’s quick mechanical motions. Behind the tense exterior, Sherlock knew John was just as excited by the prospect of what waited for them in the hospital as Sherlock was; Sherlock just wasn’t as concerned with the ethics of it.

It only took a few long, graceful strides before Sherlock had caught up to John on the hospital stairs. Andersen was waiting for them at the doorway, and upon seeing the two men, he pushed himself off the wall on which he was leaning with a furrowed brow. “Have you and Sgt. Donovan traded guard dog shifts for the afternoon?” Sherlock commented, glancing over Andersen’s scalp to see inside. “Go on, howl and let them know that we’ve arrived. Or are you going to snarl at John first, as your coworker does?”

“Sherlock,” John warned. Andersen scowled, but turned to John rather than giving a retort.

“You came quickly,” Andersen commented shortly. “We weren’t expecting you for at least another half hour.”

“Yes, there really was no need,” Sherlock quipped, a slight smirk on his face. “Quite a surprise for you, I imagine; I’m usually only called when there has already been a crime committed. Is the situation already too complex for our finest officers to handle before the victim has stopped breathing?”

“There is no crime yet, you insolent freak of nature,” Andersen spat back.

“Then what am I doing here?” Sherlock replied lowly, barely a hint of questioning in his dark tone.

“That’s what I was asking, but Lestrade _insisted_.” Andersen spun on his heel. “Now are you coming, or does the great detective have more important things on his agenda?”

Sherlock have a curt nod, but said nothing further. Andersen walked quickly ahead, John tailing behind the other two as best as he could. He didn’t mind falling slightly behind; it gave him time to check the surroundings, an instinct well-learned in his military service. It also gave him time to assess the two men in front of him, in an attempt to prepare for what may be in store for them. Andersen’s behavior on the surface seemed normal, but John noticed the darkened skin under the man’s eyes, the yellow teeth from excessive amounts of nicotine and coffee, and the stressed tics and twitches; Andersen hadn’t slept for far too long, and was clearly stressed by whatever situation they had all found themselves. As for Sherlock, well, John had lived with the man long enough to at least recognize that Sherlock was a five-year-old at heart with grown-up toys; there was a new toy waiting at the end of this trip, and behind the calm expression, the detective was beaming.

Andersen led them through the lobby, where a sparse number of people sat with their heads down, eyes lowered, thoughts consuming. John always wondered what was going through their heads—it was a bitter habit he had developed ever since returning from the war. He had wondered what people were supposed to think of in their spare moments, while the sounds of mortars and the smell of blood and dirt were all that had occupied his.

Andersen roughly pushed the call button for the elevator, glaring up at the doorway as if to intimidate the contraption into moving faster. “Where is Lestrade, that he can’t greet us himself?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

“He’s finishing up a few things; I’m not exactly thrilled about being your escort either, you know.”

“What kind of things can he possibly be doing? He made it sound urgent on the phone,” John quipped.

“Trust me, you’ll see when he gets here.” With a loud ring, the elevator doors swung open, and Andersen swiftly stepped into the opening. Sherlock and John followed, turning to face the doors as the elevator began to close. “Don’t you worry, we’re going somewhere that you both should feel right at home in by now.”

“The laboratory is not for social meetings,” Sherlock growled indignantly. Andersen chuckled, a sign that Sherlock must have guessed correctly.

“No one would mistake _you_ for social, so don’t you worry that oversized brain of yours,” Andersen replied as the doors closed. “And after Lestrade meets with you, you may appreciate having some of those chemicals within arms’ reach.”

Sherlock’s mouth tightened, but he resigned himself to glaring at the elevator doors as he brooded. John glanced to his flatmate’s face, and then also rested his stare on the doors, arms crossed over his chest. Part of him had to repress a smirk—Sherlock regarded that laboratory as sacred ground, and the man’s possessive nature was a stark contrast to his usual composure. Andersen seemed more than content to stand in uncomfortable silence, stepping out noiselessly when the elevator whined and parted its doors to release its inhabitants. Sherlock and John followed their reluctant escort, although there was really no need; they had walked this hallway countless times before. The very smell of it—that cold clean aroma—had a distinct hollow promise to it, where very atoms would rearrange and transfigure to lay answers bare, if one could only read them. John could practically feel the hairs prickle on Sherlock’s arm in excitement through his thick coat—the man instinctively responded to the scent of a case. Andersen paused, unsure of the exact door, but Sherlock knew, and had started to twist his body into the doorway before Andersen had time to even confirm it was the right room.

John followed behind, still biting back the memory that the first time he had hobbled through that doorway after the war, things had been completely different. A new flat, a new leg, a new life...all had come after his first stumble through that door. He still remembered the way Sherlock had sat studying his blood sample, and John’s first thought had been a sneer at the man’s insistence to wear designer clothing around those types of chemicals. Some things didn’t change.

Lestrade’s tired frame leaned against the counter across from the main lab bench, hunched with exhaustion. His gray-lined face was tight with thought, eyes still alert with that characteristic hungry spark. Sherlock often downplayed Lestrade as a simple man, but John saw a lot of himself reflected in the inspector, and knew that Lestrade was anything but a mere fool. There was a drive to him, a rough sense of the hunt that fueled his every move; there was reason he was Sherlock’s favorite in the Yard. John had to admit it was a strange sight—he had seen Lestrade involved in many cases, but never down in the laboratory. Sherlock, evidently, shared that sentiment. “This is a bit of a commute for you to be down here, isn’t it?” Sherlock drawled, tracing his eyes over the materials on the lab bench. “Not quite your division, to my knowledge.”

“Well, I figured it’d be good to stretch my legs.” Lestrade smirked. “And you can’t tell me it wouldn’t make you happy to show off a bit.”

“Is that why I’m here? To ‘show off’?”

“Well, no, not exactly...” Lestrade rubbed the stubble under his chin, unkempt.

“Three days.”

“What?”

“It’s been three days since you’ve returned home. You’ve slept here and there—four, maybe five hours—but you’ve yet to leave. Your face in unshaven, I can smell the nicotine on your teeth from here, and there’s still crumbs from the pastry you got out of the vending machine below your lip. Now it may be the lack of sleep or the poor diet in the past seventy-two hours that has you nervously tapping your index finger on your side and switching your focus in two-second increments, or—more likely—you have a particularly distressing case that has you in over your head—again—in which case, I would highly suggest you dismiss any ideas of prattling on and get to the part where you tell me why you have called me in with such exquisite urgency.”

Lestrade frowned, turning to John. “He’s all antsy—did you not get him outside yet today?” Before Sherlock could open his mouth in protest, Lestrade rose from his leaning position on the wall and sunk into the chair beside the lab bench. “Thank you, Andersen, you can go now.”

Andersen paused, but reluctantly obliged—the tone in Lestrade’s voice was hoarse and unrelenting, not malleable for any disagreement. The door gently clicked shut, and Lestrade began to tap the fingers of his right hand on the lab bench in a smooth, rhythmic fashion. “I have a challenge for you.”

Sherlock remained quiet—he was listening, eyes dark in anticipation. “Three days ago, we responded to a suicide out near Sard’s Cabins. Everything was routine until the landlord and I found a half-dead girl on the shore. We thought maybe she was a guest in the cabins who had a swimming accident with the upcoming storm, or in the worse case scenario, someone had tried to drown her and left her for dead; but there’s no record of her staying there, and no one nearby recognized her. It was like she just washed ashore out of nowhere.”

“People don’t just waddle out of the sea,” John commented.

“She didn’t have any ID on her, so we had to get her back here to get her help before we started investigating who she was. She was half frozen to death, hadn’t eaten since God knows when, and looked like someone had brutalized her—it looked like something had clawed her arm up, and there were bruises all over her. We got her back to St.Bart’s, and then found out that she’s not a visitor—there’s not any record of her at all in England. She was a research intern on the _S.S. Sayanara_ , a marine research ship that was travelling the Atlantic Ocean. Otherwise her background was pretty typical—twenty-two year old recent college graduate, bright-eyed and ready, spending a few years out at sea to assist some crew in marine research around the world. They were scheduled to port in London in five days, but there’s no sign of the ship—no one is answering the radio, no sign of them using sonar, and aerial flyovers didn’t see anything either. There was no distress signal, and we haven’t found anyone else—the last anyone has heard from the _Sayanara_ was three weeks ago.”

“Did they sink in the storm?”

“There would have been some sort of contact sometime sooner than three weeks ago if that were the case.” Sherlock’s voice was low, steady—his brain was already churning the story, thoughts braiding beneath the mop of dark hair.

“We’ve had search parties scouring every inch of the eastern coast—nothing, not even pieces from the wreck. The _Sayanara_ just disappeared, and that girl is the only thing left.”

Sherlock’s brow cast skeptical shadows under his eyes. “And what exactly are you asking of me, Inspector?”

Lestrade stared at his flickering fingers, gray eyes tense beneath their lids. “The girl might know something....she saw what happened. Right now, she won’t talk to anyone, probably for good reason—she’s just gone through something traumatic, whatever it was. People she worked with, lived with, and cared for are gone now, and she’s the only remaining link to help us figure out what happened.”

“There are professionals that would be well-equipped to aid you in that endeavor,” Sherlock quipped.

“The information that we're expecting is a little too sensitive; it's a matter of national security. Besides, it’s too soon and too touchy of a subject. Her mental state is fragile enough as it is right now—we’re afraid that too much pushing, and she’ll completely snap. We need that information from her, and we need someone clever enough to get it out of her slowly...someone who can read people and who has a strong taste for a case.”

“I’m offended, Inspector. I figured you regarded my skills in higher esteem than just a mere interrogator.”

“It’s not an interrogation,” Lestrade answered sternly. “This is a rehabilitation, nice and gradual. We need someplace for her to stay and settle, somewhere where she’s safe and we can keep an eye on her until this whole situation becomes more clear.”

There was a moment of uneasy silence. “You want me....to babysit your shipwreck survivor.”

“She’s not a child, Sherlock. She’s a perfectly capable adult.”

“Then why does she need someone to look after her?”

“She’s traumatized, Sherlock. Besides, that’s not why I asked you to do this.”

“Then why me, exactly? Whatever prompted you to believe I was a good candidate for this task?”

“Well, quite honestly, it wasn’t fully my idea.”

“Whose was it then?”

“Mycroft got involved. He asked for you by name.”

“Well now I definitely won’t do it.”

“Sherlock.” Lestrade lifted his gaze. “I’m in no short supply of persuasion here...need I remind you of all the times I ‘conveniently’ forgot to mention all of your violations?”

Sherlock repressed the urge to fidget, but the worry flashed across his eyes. “You won’t find anything. I’m clean. You know that.”

“Are you? I have no doubt that you stopped using, but you mean to tell me that if I searched your flat, I wouldn’t find anything you might have kept, for nostalgia’s sake?”

Sherlock remained silent. Behind him, John’s face was crinkled in a fit of confusion. “Why is Mycroft so interested in a shipwreck?” the doctor asked harshly.

Lestrade paused, teeth scraping on the tip of his tongue as he found the words. “We suspect that something very sinister has happened to the _Sayanara_...and that girl is the only thing left to possibly tell us exactly what that was. We need you to help her...and help us in the process.”

Sherlock was wordless, something that Lestrade took as a hopeful sign. “If it’s money you’re worried about, don’t be—your brother has inexplicably arranged all of that for her, so she won’t be a burden. All she needs is a couch to rest her head at night, and your clever head to unravel whatever secrets she has. And you can’t tell me,” Lestrade continued with a slight grin, “that you’re not the least bit curious as to why your brother is so interested.”

“I suppose you aren’t permitted to tell me why he’s so invested into this case.”

“I’m afraid not, but I’m sure you can figure it out with enough time. Think of it as...incentive.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. John’s eyes were trained on the back of his head, waiting for him to refuse and storm from the lab. “I want it on record that I do this in protest,” Sherlock finally growled.

John and Lestrade stared in equal amazement. “You’ll do it?” Lestrade asked, almost disbelievingly.

“Well, as you so elegantly pointed out, you’re in no short supply of _persuasion_...and more importantly, it’s clear that you are completely over your head in this business. Who else would you turn to?” With a sigh, Sherlock tightened his scarf. “Now where do I find this charge of yours, and how soon until she is prepared to leave?”

Lestrade smiled, barely attempting to mask the smug sense of satisfaction. “She’s waiting for you upstairs,” he answered, standing from his chair. Sherlock had left before Lestrade had even finished his sentence, leaving John alone with the inspector in the dimly-lit lab. John glanced over at Lestrade with crossed arms, and Lestrade frowned almost apologetically. “I do hope all of this will be okay with you, John. I realize it’s a large inconvenience for you.”

“Not exactly,” John replied through a tense jaw. “It’s all a very bad mess, if you ask me...not that you did. I don’t like any of it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure it’s not any worse off than any other case you and Sherlock have dealt with in these past couple of months.” Lestrade laid a heavy hand on John’s shoulder, barely felt through the thick material of the jumper. “Just do me a favor....”

John’s eyes narrowed, and Lestrade sighed again. “Try to make sure he doesn’t eat her alive,” the inspector groaned, stepping out of the lab and still unsure of exactly what situation he had just thrown this girl into.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Arrival

John tapped his knee; even that subtle sound seemed too much for the fragile silence pervading the taxi cab. John's stare kept shifting to his left, growing less and less inconspicuous as the silence continued. In the other window seat, Sherlock lazily gazed out beyond the glass; his long body seemed very much at ease, barely cognizant of the other passenger, whose posture starkly contrasted him. While Sherlock's lengthy limbs stretched to consume any space available in the cab, the girl seemed drawn into herself, one hand carefully clasped around her other wrist and placed just above her knees. Her back was straight but her shoulders were slumped, as if pulled down by the weight of the oversized brown sweater Lestrade had found for her from the back shelves of the hospital's lost-and-found. The fabric swamped her form, which John suspected was alarmingly thin by the hollowness of her cheeks. A pair of badly torn jeans and plastic flip-flops were all Lestrade could find for her lower body, and even those looked a little large on her.

John wasn't too worried about the clothing—that could be fixed shortly. He was more worried about her face; he could only see her profile as her stare remained permanently fixated directly ahead. Her expression was weary, green eyes empty and distant from the events around her. Something about that face had immediately stopped Sherlock's lengthy complaints the moment he had seen her, instead replacing the brooding in his eyes with a spark of excitement. The man had been uncharacteristically silent ever since, and John continued to search for any hint at what had changed his flatmate's mind. It wasn't softness towards her condition—John knew Sherlock better than that. He recognized that familiar facial expression—Sherlock had caught the scent of a hunt.

After accompanying Sherlock on the first few cases, John had often attempted to analyze and deduce situations—in silence, of course, he would never admit it—but often found himself stumped at what details merited importance. He always ended up abandoning the exercise, wondering how even a highly trained doctorate mind like his could still feel so inefficient and blind. Still, something had caught Sherlock's attention, and John couldn't fathom what it was—what had actually shut him up? Was it the way her jaws were clenched? Was it the number of times she blinked? The way she hadn't uttered a single syllable?

Lestrade and John had both expected some sort of tantrum once they had reached the hospital lobby. Both men had braced themselves for an offhanded comment on Sherlock's behalf; first impressions weren't exactly the man's strength. Yet when Lestrade led them to the frail girl's chair, neither her nor Sherlock spoke a word.

“ _Alexis, this is Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson,_ ” Lestrade had said in an unusually gentle tone. “ _They're going to be your hosts during this investigation_.”

She had lifted her chin and attempted a small smile, but the movement barely moved her lips. Sherlock had clasped his hands behind his back, returning the small gesture with equal difficulty. Her eyes were still cognizant enough, but they seemed apologetic and continuously searching. Perhaps that was why Sherlock suddenly seemed intrigued—the girl acted like someone was waiting in the shadows just beyond her sight. Even John could see that.

John sat back in his seat, taking a breath. “Have you...ever been to London?” he rasped awkwardly, attempting anything to break the quiet. She glanced at him in surprise.

“No, she hasn't,” Sherlock interjected before the girl could even twitch her head. “First time in England, judging by the way she stares out the window from left to right in two-second intervals. Consistent with scanning a new environment.”

John's brow furrowed, eyes narrowing in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock didn't so much as turn his head, and so John cleared his throat, lowering his eyes back onto Alexis. “Okay, then, so where are you from originally..?”

“America,” Sherlock quipped. “Northwest state, somewhere on the coast, from a small town.”

“Do you _mind_?” John spat, irritated. He paused. “And how could possibly guess all that?”

“It's not a _guess_ ,” Sherlock sneered, turning slightly towards John's side of the cab. “Her skin is recently tanned and scarring as she hasn't been exposed to sun consistently throughout her life, hence the easily burned epidermis she has been so unluckily blessed with. Additionally, her hair is light but the underside is a dark brown, meaning that it fluctuates with the more intense light fluctuations found in the northwest regions. Why America? Her attention has been primarily drawn to brands found in the United States, indicating a personal familiarity with them, something appealing to her being in a foreign country. She's clearly from a suburban upbringing: there are contacts on her eyes—which need to be changed, by the way—so there was enough income to care for her eyesight, but her appearance doesn't match the aesthetic priorities of a more urban setting. Her grooming is simplistic; cuticles uncared for, hair is trimmed to be easily managed, and she has clearly never stepped a foot inside a dermatologist's office. Her skin tone is uneven but not freshly wind burnt, which can be attributed to a long-term exposure to humid yet abrasive conditions, ergo the climate of a coastal region.”

There was a moment of silence. “As impressive as that is,” John clipped through a tense jaw, “I was _trying_ to make small talk.”

“What, and make her uncomfortable?” Sherlock frowned. “That seems a bit a bit rude, doesn't it?”

John repressed a sigh. His eyes lowered, preparing to assuage whatever mortified reaction Sherlock had just instigated in their newfound houseguest. To his surprise, he face wasn't contorted in the usual cocktail of disgust, frustration and hint of fear that Sherlock usually inspired. Her eyes were open a fraction wider, and her gaze was trained on Sherlock's knee—too intimidated to look him in the face, but she had listened intently to every word of the man's evaluation. Her expression was still fairly blank, but a flicker of shock darted in her eyes, as if she had felt a pin prick her otherwise numb skin. John couldn't determine if this was a positive or negative reaction; she didn't seem any more eager to leap out of the moving vehicle, so that was at least a start.

The cab slowed, and Sherlock straightened. He tossed a wad of cash to the driver and stepped out the door silently. John placed a hand on the door handle and turned to Alexis, pausing. “Don't let him bully you too much—as absolutely dickish he can be, he really isn't that bad once you get used to him.” He clicked open the door. “Word of advice—if all else fails, ask him about tobacco ash. He'll prattle on for hours if you let him.”

* * * *

“That sweater is just awful—could he really not find anything else?”

John smirked halfheartedly at his landlady, who had followed them into the flat once she had caught sight of their new guest. After a curt greeting, Sherlock had retired immediately to his room with a face full of purpose, leaving John and Mrs. Husdon to acclimate Alexis. Currently she sat in the living room at John's request, sitting in the same guarded position she had demonstrated in the cab. Mrs. Hudson had insisted on making tea, and John had followed to help, chattering in low tones while observing the new guest through the doorway.

“I'm afraid not,” John replied, folding his arms. “Lestrade said he'd keep looking, but as of now, those clothes are the only possession she owns.”

“The poor thing,” Mrs. Hudson tutted, glancing to the living room while turning on the stovetop. “She looks so lost.”

 _Lost—_ that seemed to be the most apt adjective thus far. The girl didn't seem terrified, but she trusted nothing—she regarded everything with a veil of doubt. “Are you okay with her staying here?” John whispered gently.

“I'm just surprised Sherlock agreed to it,” Mrs. Hudson replied, voice croaking at his name. “He's usually such a private person...he's not exactly the most sociable of hosts...”

“I think the mystery appealed to him,” John admitted. “His love of proving his intellectual powers is greater than his hatred of casual human interaction.”

“Well, where is she going to sleep? I suppose you and Sherlock could share a room-”

“Out of the question,” John interjected warningly.

“No judgement here, dear, but if you insist. But are you really going to make her sleep on the couch...?”

“For now, that's the only option we have, John sighed. “We could set up a cot in one of our rooms, but I don't want to force her to share a bedroom with me, and there's no way in hell I'll subject her to sharing a confined sleeping space with Sherlock Holmes of all people.”

“It just seems so unfortunate.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “Do you know how she takes her tea?”

" 'Fraid I don't."

“Well, why don't you go ask her?” Mrs. Hudson carefully placed the pot on the flame and nudged him towards the doorway. “The poor girl is all alone in there, go make her feel welcome.”

For such a petite woman, she had a surprisingly firm grip—John stumbled a few reluctant steps. He glanced back nervously. “What do I say?” he hissed through narrowly parted teeth.

“Anything,” Mrs. Hudson urged, turning back to the boiling water.

With a sharp exhale, John turned and entered the living room slowly. Alexis lifted her head as he entered, eyes focused on him as he crossed the carpet. Her eyes were disconcerting in the silence as John settled with a thump into the armchair across from her. He tapped a rhythm on his knees, shifting his eyes so he wouldn't have to meet her gaze. “So...” he drawled, fixating on the walls. What could he ask that wouldn't trigger painful memories...? Anything regarding her background seemed like dangerous territory...where was the boundary?

“Alaska.”

John's head snapped back to her. She was still staring at him, seemingly unchanged. Had that really been her voice...? “I'm sorry...?” he stammered.

“He was right—I'm from Alaska.” Her voice was lower than he expected, husky and tentative but surprisingly strong despite her condition. Her mouth curled into a small smile, the first genuine smile she had given. Even while her body posture was still guarded, her eyes had softened slightly. “Does he do that to everyone?”

John hesitated for a brief moment before releasing a small breath through his nose, returning the small grin encouragingly. “It's a habit of his,” he admitted. “That's one of his...quirks.”

“Did he do that to you?”

John's stomach squeezed in a single soundless chuckle. “His first words to me were 'Iraq or Afghanistan'--he knew the majority of my life story before I had even introduced myself.”

“What did he know about you?”

“Well, he knew was I was an army doctor just returning from the field. He knew that my phone was a regift, I was just back to London, I was strapped for funds, but unwilling to ask for help from family. He knew that Harry was an alcoholic and recently divorced, and that I wasn't exactly happy about it. He only missed two things—that Harry is short for Hariett (my sister's name), and whether I had been stationed in Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“All those insights, and he couldn't figure that out?”

“Yeah, well, even the almighty Sherlock Holmes is only human.” John smirked, settling back into his chair. “Not that he'd ever admit it. We wouldn't want your eyes to be blinded by his magnificence of his superior mind, so I'm afraid we can only offer you the couch for now.”

“That's more than generous.” A hint of reticence glazed over eyes. “I wanted to thank both of you for housing me, Dr. Watson. I realize it's quite a task and a lot of you to accommodate.”

John held up a hand to stop her. “Do you plan on conducting science experiments in the kitchen?”

She blinked. “Um...no, can't say I do.”

“No leaving grimy beakers and flasks in the sink?”

“I am _immaculate_ with my labware.”

“No leaving human organs in the fridge?”

“I don't intend to...”

“And absolutely _no_ human eyes in the microwave to be discovered by a flatmate trying to reheat his tea?”

She paused again, an amused open-mouthed smile perking at her lips. “That's really an issue?”

“I had to throw away my mug. It was one of my favorites, too.”

“I promise to properly store and heat all accumulated body parts.”

“See? You're already more accommodating than Sherlock as a flatmate.” John leaned his cheek into his palm. “This is the man who plays violin at 2AM and the reason I change the password on my laptop twice a month, in vain, I might add. If you can handle him, we can handle you.”

“I'll do my best to not compete with him in space in the sink for my labware,” she responded, the humor giving her a small spark of ease. John sputtered into a guttural laugh.

“God help any person that competes with Sherlock Holmes!”

“I wouldn't suggest antagonizing him, you two,” Mrs. Hudson quipped, stepping into the room with three steaming cups on a tray. “He's really very sensitive.”

John snorted, eliciting a sharp glare from Mrs. Hudson that stopped him from making any further comment. “I don't plan on antagonizing Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Hudson,” Alexis admitted as Mrs. Hudson gingerly set down the tray. “The last thing I want to do is get in his way.”

Mrs. Hudson stepped back from the tray and frowned, scanning Alexis's form. “Those clothes really are dreadful, dear. Do you want some spares from my closet?”

Alexis's eyebrows fell in concern. “Oh, please, don't go out of your way, I'm really fine in these...”

“Don't be ridiculous, that's not troublesome at all.” She began to tread backwards, mouth widened in a coral grin. “You stay here, and I'll be back in a moment.” Before Alexis could object, Mrs. Hudson's petite frame had moved surprisingly lithely past her chair and towards the stairs, an air of excitement in her step. Alexis closed her mouth, defeated.

“In case you couldn't tell, she's secretly happy you're here,” John commented. “This flat can become sort of a boy's club after a while.”

“Well, I hope I can help.” Alexis glanced at her hands. “Are there any other rules I should know while I'm here, Dr. Watson?”

“Rules? What kind of rules?”

“Talk about ash when I doubt, don't challenge Mr. Holmes, and no mismanaged body parts.” Alexis's mouth twitched into another quick smile before fading into seriousness again. “Is there anything else I should know?”

John drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, pondering. “I suppose I just want to leave you with one general guideline.” He stooped forward, picking up his cup and blowing gently on the steam. “Sherlock is a brilliant man, and a dedicated man, and the best thing for you to do is step back and not question his methods. The more you stay out of his process, the better. Otherwise, as long as you're clean and courteous, you will fit in just fine in 221 Baker Street.”

* * * *

John heard Sherlock enter before he saw the silhouette—the agitated swish of the dresing gown was unmistakable. After a few brisk strides (which John heard muffled on the carpet), Sherlock placed a long hand on the desk next to John's keyboard. John reluctantly glanced up from the computer, a blank blinking blog post illuminating his face. “You've been gone a while,” John commented.

“I've been looking through Lestrade's reports,” Sherlock replied quietly, sharply turning the keyboard towards himself. He opened a new tab with quick graceful keystrokes before lowering an indignant look towards John. “You're not writing about her already, are you?”

John scowled, irritated by the physical abduction of his computer but unwillingly to tear it from Sherlock's grasp. He nodded towards the armchair. “Would you stop talking about her like that, she's--”

“Fast asleep, so as long as you speak in a lower register, she won't be disturbed.” Sherlock's lip curled. “That floral print is really off-fitting on her.”

“It's the best we had,” John hissed back. With another key stroke, the screen bathed Sherlock's face in a cerulean light. It cast a teal tint over Sherlock's irises, which separated the screen intently. John sat back in his chair, folding his arms. “It's been seven hours, how have you been reading a measly report this whole time?”

“Not just one report, the entire file Lestrade sent me. The police report, her medical records, academic transcripts, financial statements, phone records, grocery receipts, anything and everything he could get his hands on that had her name on it.”

John blinked. “There's no way he got all that legally.”

“A technicality, at worst.” The nonchalance in Sherlock's voice elicited a heavy frown from John. It shouldn't have surprised him that confidentiality was a flexible boundary for Sherlock.

“That's a lot of field work....why all the effort for information on this one person?”

“That's what I asked initially. Lestrade has taken a special interest in this young woman, and that in turn peaked my own curiosity.”

“Why is the head of Scotland Yard interested in a single shipwreck survivor?”

“Well, for one, she knows about Moriarty.”

“ _What_?”

Sherlock glared warningly. “ _Lower. Register_ ,” he hissed through clenched teeth. He glanced to the armchair, and only turned back when he was satisfied with the lack of movement. “I don't see why that would shock you so greatly, he's been over the news.”

“But how does Lestrade _know_ that she knows?”

Sherlock flashed a satisfied smile at the question. “Because it was the first coherent word she said when they found her.”

John leaned forward onto the desk. “You're telling me that she washed onto shore and her first instinct wasn't to ask for help, but talk about James Moriarty?”

“Well, I wouldn't say 'about'--she said his name once and never addressed it since. Lestrade said he doesn't believe she even remembers saying it.”

“No one asked her about it?”

“They didn't think she could handle it. After she was hospitalized, they immediately put her under psychiatric surveillance—her mental state was deemed too fragile for any official interrogation.”

“And I suppose that's where we came in,” John murmured, resting his jaw on his fingers.

“I should say so.”

“Who the hell is this girl?”

“Other than this recent incident, she's perfectly ordinary.” Sherlock tapped a key and angled the computer back towards John. A grainy photograph of Alexis topped the document, her face fuller and hair pulled into a loose ponytail. “Twenty-two years old, recent college graduate, the daughter of two Michigan college sweethearts. Father is a retired Air Force officer, the mother is a secretary for the State Troopers, little brother just beginning high school. Family of four, with a dog and a picket fence and all the coziness of suburban life. Eight months ago, she was accepted as a research technician on the _Sayanara_ with the mission to catalogue oceanic conditions around the globe to assess climatic changes on the biota. Seven weeks ago, the _Sayanara_ experienced radio difficulties while traveling through the Celtic Sea off the west coast of Wales. Four weeks ago, all contact was lost. Two weeks ago, Lestrade found a delirious Ms. Messed washed ashore.”

John traced his jawline with his thumb. “Did Moriarty have something to do with the disappearance of the _Sayanara_?”

“Well he obviously had some involvement, why else would she mention him?”

“Is it possible that she was trying to say something else, and that she just happened to say his name by coincidence?”

“You know how I feel about coincidences, John,” Sherlock replied lowly, turning his eyes back to the screen.

“What would Moriarty want with a marine research ship?”

“I have approximately 115 possible motivations thus far.” Sherlock crinkled his brow, annoyed. “None of them seems any more probably than the others.”

John turned his own gaze to the screen briefly. The picture seemed so distant, a face nearly unrecognizable. “Sherlock...how does an entire ship disappear?”

“It's not our first encounter with seemingly impossible disappearance.” He cast a half smile in John's direction. It fell back into seriousness quickly. “Unfortunately, that girl may be the last remaining connection to the _Sayanara_ , which means we need her to talk to fill in the missing pieces. That alone is going to take an arduous amount of time and patience.”

“What makes you say that?” John's brow furrowed. “Wouldn't she want somebody to know what happened?”

Sherlock straightened slightly, hands flat on the desk. “You saw her arms,” he answered quietly.

John sat back in his own chair, nodding. Mrs. Hudson's sleevelss dress had exposed Alexis's pale arms, which were heavily bruised and scarred in the tender flesh of her elbows. The wounds were vicious and dark, still blackening the tender tissue. “Possibly hurt in the shipwreck?”

“ _Potential_ shipwreck,” Sherlock corrected, “and if that were the case, she'd have more wounds over the rest of her body; hers are much more localized. There are bruises on her wrists and back, suggesting she was restrained, but the marks are too imprecise to indicate any message or method of torture.”

“They restrained her...is she dangerous?”

Sherlock snorted. “Does she _look_ dangerous, John?”

“Looks have little to do with it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I'm already considered that possibility, and I've long since ruled it out. She's damaged and scared, but she's harmless.”

John stared at the back of the armchair, frowning. “Something terrible happened on that ship,” he finally affirmed. He turned back to Sherlock. “What the hell happened out there?”

“That,” Sherlock replied tersely, “is exactly what Lestrade needs us for.”

 

 


	3. Joining the Game

 A crack of daylight split across Alexis's face, causing her to crinkle her nose. From behind tightly shut eyes, she immediately brooded on the strange sensation of the dress, the fabric crumpled and pulled over the small curve of her hip. It had been a long time since she had adorned anything but Carhartts and knee-high rain boots...sea wind wasn't kind to anything not locked around her appendages. Thankfully she felt some expanse of fabric enveloping her body, shielding her exposed skin and weighing heavily under her chin. Sometime during the night, someone must have draped a blanket over her. She had curled into the seat of the armchair overnight, legs folded to her chest; already, her joints were aching in protest. She sat up slowly, collecting her limbs beneath her to push herself upright. She rubbed her crusted eyes, regretting that she had once again fallen asleep in her contacts. Her first blink was blurry, eyelids struggling to separate.

Slowly the interior of the flat came into clearer view. She pulled the blanket around her shoulders, glancing around the room in the morning light. The sounds of traffic outside wafted gently through the window, but otherwise the entire flat was silent; Alexis couldn't hear any signs of movement in nearby rooms. Perhaps everyone else had left for the day...?

She gently lifted the blanket and tucked it to her side, slipping out into a standing position. Flinching at the cold air on her skin, she hurriedly pulled down the fabric that had bunched above her pelvis, quickly covering her exposed hips. She smoothed her skirt, the material falling just above her knees. The dress hung clumsily around her waist, and had pulled awkwardly to her left side over the course of the night. _I'm not hungry,_ she noted to herself grimly. _I should be hungry_. It was becoming a new routine for her lately to assess her appetite—it was her indication of whether that day would be better, if it would be cast in any shade of normality. Thus far, nothing had changed.

Her tongue darted in her mouth, hot with arid texture. Perhaps a glass of water to soothe it then...but where would she find a glass? John had mentioned kitchen science experiments...had he been kidding? What if she accidentally messed up an experiment and angered Mr. Holmes? He intimidated her enough already, which his tall frame and abrupt demeanor. She frowned nervously—as kindly as she had been welcomed, she felt completely out of place. Where was she supposed to go? What was she supposed to do all day? What could she touch in this whole place?

Stretching her legs, Alexis walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain slightly. Below, pedestrians scattered around the sidewalk, darting back and forth across the street. The occasional black cab would drive by, bringing more characters into the picture. These people were parents, teenagers, teachers, businessmen, stragglers, all with the hungry faces of people hurrying to the next event of that day. Alexis would watch one individual at a time, trying to imagine their life story and analyzing the expressions on their faces. She was trying to find any hint of what it was like to be caught up in day-to-day life; how did it feel to not feel so isolated from what was supposed to come naturally.

“John!”

The shout startled Alexis, nearly causing her to drop the curtain. Sherlock hurried into the room, roughly pulling his thick coat around his shoulders. His movements were quick and agitated, his eyes sharp with impatience. His long throat pulsated with anticipation, his usually calm demeanor abandoned for an instinctual eagerness. “ _John_!”

Even his voice seemed rough with urgency. His eyes found her, and Alexis froze. She had half-expected him to ignore her, and how that his flustered gaze had found her, she was afraid to breath in case he could smell fear. “Where's John?” he demanded, breath coming in a huff.

Alexis swallowed. “I...I haven't seen him,” she rasped. She tried to calm her nerves—she wasn't in trouble, she was supposed to be here, and yet she kept expecting those gleaming eyes to tear into her. His presence was overbearing, and she couldn't help but feel that she had somehow intruded his space.

The man fidgeted, restless. “I have fifteen minutes to get to a crime scene, and he chooses now of all times to disappear. Do you know where he went?”

“Work, maybe...?” Her dry throat wasn't helping the uneasiness in her voice.

“Ah, of course, that primitive practice he's at now, peddling out cold pills and putting bandages on childrens' playground cuts, a waste of his skills.” Sherlock snarled. “I thought I had talked him out of that.”

Alexis remained still as Sherlock's complaints faded, his mouth closing as his mind began to churn, the consideration heavy in his gaze. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing on her in silence. Alexis shifted uncomfortably, the weight of his stare unrelenting without a single accompanying word. “Very well,” he clipped finally, crooking his finger twice. “You, come with me.”

The hairs on Alexis's arm stood on end. “You're not suggesting I actually help you...?” she stammered. John's warning still prickled in the back of her mind, and this felt like the very definition of “getting involved” in Mr. Holmes' process.

“Well I'm not exactly _suggesting_ it, but I suppose so, yes.”

“But I don't know what's even going on...”

“Other people rarely do.”

“I can't be qualified!”

“My last companion before John was a skull. I am perfectly confident in your ability to keep up with such stiff competition.”

Alexis' mouth tightened. “Won't I just be in your way?”

“If you haven't noticed, I like to talk, and if no one is there to listen, people start to ask stupid questions. I'd rather like to avoid that particular hiccup.” He flashed an uncomfortably sarcastic smile, then sharply turned to the door with the swish of his coat. “Try to keep up, time is not a privilege we readily have.”

Alexis's hand fell off the curtain, knees weakened by the urge to follow. This was ridiculous—that wasn't the type of man she could help. This wasn't the kind of situation where she could ever function as anything but a burden. Why would she ever subject herself to this? She could stay behind, sip some tea, read a book, and enjoy some quiet domesticity...

On the other hand, that sounded absolutely mind-numbing.

Alexis sprang forward, legs surprisingly strong in their movements. Sherlock had paused in the doorway, chin tilted in a moment of contemplation before yanking one of John's brown coats off the hook and tossing it in Alexis' face. “Put that on,” he ordered shortly, voice trailing off as he swiftly stepped out the door to descend the stairs. After whispering an apology to John under her breath, she wrestled the coat over her shoulders while simultaneously trying to slip her feet back into her flip-flops, the cold plastic chilling the callused skin of her feet. She hustled out the door without a second thought to the zipper—the large jacket draped over her frame to her hips and hung past her wrists, covering plenty enough to keep her warm. Once the coat was secured on her body she hurried down the stairs, her footwear slapping against her heels loudly with every step. Sherlock was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, his face hard with impatience. Alexis descended the last ten stairs, wincing at the sound of her flip-flops echoing through the stairwell. She had never been so grateful for flat ground than when she finally reached Sherlock's elbow. “Sorry,” she sputtered, pulling the coat around her.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked forward wordlessly, securing his scarf around his throat. Alexis repressed a grimace, already starting to regret this decision. She jogged behind him, struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride while simultaneously attempting to move noiselessly in her impossible sandals. Sherlock hailed a cab, his expression focused under heavy brows as he ducked his tall body into the interior of the automobile. Alexis darted in directly after him, half-expecting him to inadvertently slam the door in her face. She was surprised that he ever remembered to slide over and let her inside.

With the thud of the door shutting, the cab growled back to life. Sherlock gave a curt order of an address that Alexis didn't recognize and then settled back into his seat, glancing out the window. Aleis nervously pulled the coat tighter around her torso, brow furrowing in the uncomfortable silence. The lull of the tires no pavement filled the cab, a static hum resonating throughout the metal frame.

“You were doing so well exercising your vocal cords thus far this morning, I can't imagine why you'd stop now.”

Alexis turned towards Sherlock, who was still staring out the window. “I'm sorry...?”

“Again with pointless apologies, how tedious.” Sherlock sighed, tilting his jaw towards her to observe her out of the corner of his eye. “I cannot believe that you are so complacent in your ignorance to not ask the stream of questions you undoubtedly have.”

His words clipped out at such a smooth speed, it took Alexis a moment to process what he was saying. She could only imagine how stupidly doe-eyed she looked to him. “Where are we going again...?” she croaked.

“Crime scene.”

“And what are we doing there?”

“If all goes well, solving a murder.”

“Are you with the police?”

“I suppose that's one way of looking at it.” Sherlock shifted in his seat to face straight ahead of him. “I'm a consulting detective.”

“I haven't heard of that before.”

“I wouldn't imagine that you would, I invented the title. When the police are particularly stumped, which is most of the time, they call me. I find what they missed—which is usually everything of importance—and then allow them to cuff the perpetrator to their hearts' content. I do the majority of the field word, of course, but it makes them feel like participated.”

“Okay...I have another question.”

“Obviously.”

“What am _I_ doing here?”

“You're standing in as my assistant. My work entails a good amount of footwork, and while I'm perfectly capable on my own, I prefer to work with the a second pair of eyes.”

 _Maybe if you didn't microwave them_ , Alexis thought. She shook her head gently."I'm not sure how you managed this, but I think you might have grossly overestimated my abilities.”

“Statistically possible, but highly unlikely.”

“What does Dr. Watson usually do?”

“John? He usually attempts to apply his military and medical training to the situation, all while showering my deductions with superfluous flattery.”

Alexis sighed, leaning her elbow on the pane of the car window. “You would have been better off bringing a chihuahua along than me.”

Sherlock arched an amused eyebrow, angling his jaw towards her again. “An interesting analogy,” he mused. “If you urinate on my crime scene, I will be very unhappy.”

“I'll do my best,” Alexis murmured, turning her own uneasy stare out the window. If Sherlock heard her, he didn't respond initially, instead sporting a strange expression on his face. Was that a smirk?

“You seem nervous.”

 _Did it take your keen detective brain to figure that one out?_ Alexis bit the inside of her cheek—she tended to get a bit snide when she felt apprehensive. “I feel a bit ridiculous,” she admitted.

“I wouldn't advise that. Self-deprecation regarding your abilities won't do anything but cloud your judgement.”

“That wasn't what I was talking about.” Alexis rubbed a patch on the coat sleeve below her elbow. “I meant more about the fact that I'm wearing a grown man's coat that's practically falling apart, a twenty-year-old maternity sundress, and the most annoying footwear that I have ever put on my feet. It doesn't exactly scream 'professional'.”

“Professionalism has many different definitions in my field.” The cab began to slow, the flashing lights of a police car blinking in the corner of the windshield. Sherlock gripped his door handle, turning to Alexis. “I seem to have forgotten to bring any money. Pay the man, will you?”

Alexis blanched. “But, I don't...”

“There's cash in your right pocket that John has misplaced.”

Alexis slipped a hand in her pocket, her fingertips brushing against crumpled edges of paper. Her knowledge of European currency was still minimal. “How much?”

“All of it.”

She wrapped her fingers around the pile of paper and pulled it out. She stared at the money and tried to assess the amount she was holding, but the colors and numbers seemed alien to her. She held it out apologetically to the driver, who took it in thick fingers a little too eagerly. “Besides,” Sherlock drawled, stepping out of the door. He turned and rested his arms on the door frame, bending to talk into the cab. “I'm used to getting weird looks after Billy.”

Alexis gripped her own handle. “Billy...?” she asked tentatively.

“The skull.” With that, Sherlock shut the door and strutted to the sidewalk. Alexis clicked open her own, sliding her legs out onto the sidewalk.

“He named the skull,” she muttered, standing and closing the door behind her. The cab drove away, the glaring police lights reflecting in the shine of its black paint. Shoving her hands in her pockets, Alexis half-jogged to reach Sherlock, who was sauntering to the yellow police tape. Alexis glanced to his expression, which looked daunting under the angled shadows cast by the flashing sirens. There was a predatory gleam in his eyes, further accentuated by the sharp lines of his face. “You enjoy this, don't you?” she asked.

“That's a topic we can explore at length,” he responded curtly, lifting the police tape for both of them to enter, “at another time.” His tall frame had to bend significantly more to duck beneath, the tension snapping the tape back into place once he released it. Immediately, a dark-haired woman glanced in their direction, her face twisting into a scowl. She stood with the precise posture of an officer, and she promptly turned on her heel and stormed towards them. “Brace yourself,” Sherlock hissed to Alexis. “She's been arguing with her landlord again, a stranger spilled his cappuccino on her blouse on her way to work, and she's hit her shins three—no, four times. Needless to say, she's in a downright foul temper.”

“How do you know...?” Alexis started to ask, but Sherlock sharply straightened his shoulders, turning his attention forward.

“We've talked about you bringing your little hobo gang into crime scenes, freak.”

“I'm quite aware of your feelings towards my homeless network, Sgt. Donovan,” Sherlock clipped lowly, “but this is not one of them.”

Alexis felt her cheeks burn as she realized neither her hair nor her teeth were brushed. She could only imagine the state of her mane at the moment.

“Another straggler, then?” the woman sneered, scanning Alexis from head to toe. “I never took you for a nanny.”

“Not all of us are deathly terrified of tiny helpless human beings, Sgt. Donovan, but I hardly think now is the time to discuss your crippling fear of never getting the chance to start a family with a man who doesn't already have one of his own sitting at home, so if you wouldn't mind allowing my assistant and I to inspect this crime scene.”

“Assistant?” Donovan looked at Alexis incredulously. “Did your last one finally come to his senses?”

“John is temporality unavailable for today, but I assure you he'll back back soon enough. I know how much he enjoys your pleasantries.”

“Lestrade isn't going to be happy that you've brought another pet along; he barely gets away with having you here.”

“Noted,” Sherlock responded dully, accentuating every consonant crisply before pushing past Donovan to ascend the stairs. The door to the building was ajar, squeaking on its hinges. Alexis reluctantly scurried past Donovan as well, the officer's dark eyes boring into the side of her head as Alexis refused to make eye contact. She ran on her toes, knees moving quickly under the fabric of her dress. Sherlock's pace had hastened, his entire body moving with tense precision. His eyes scanned the length of the door, gliding one finger along the latch before stepping through the entrance. Alexis tried to find any hint of importance, but couldn't decipher what Sherlock had possibly seen as she followed.

The stale warmth of the building immediately brushed over her, skin still prickling from the autumn chill outside. Further down the hallway, an officer stood guard outside the open door to the ground floor flat, the shadow of the stairs darkening the narrow corridor. Immediately, Alexis felt an urge to rip the infernal shoes off of her feet—it was difficult to keep herself composed when the sound of plastic slapping her heels echoed rhythmically throughout the hall. She tentatively touched her hair with her fingertips and winced at the tangled, frazzled texture; no wonder Donovan had looked so skeptical. She curled her fingers into her tresses, attempting to roughly comb through the gnarled locks. “Don't do that,” Sherlock hissed out of the corner of his mouth. “You'll scatter hair over the crime scene.”

She unhooked her fingers obediently, albeit hesitantly. Even a hair tie would help, and it felt strange not to have one wrapped around her wrist. “Sorry,” she responded instinctively, shoving her hand back into her baggy pocket. Sherlock had stopped paying attention to her, however, instead tracing his eyes along the wallpaper as he walked. Alexis could only see the subtle fraying print that lined the dimly lit surface; Sherlock gazed upon it as if he were reading a magazine article. His eyebrow arched skeptically before he turned his head and passed the officer at the door, Alexis shyly tailing Sherlock without looking into the officer's face.

Immediately, the decoration of the place was either artistic or chaotic, and Alexis was willing to guess the latter. The speckled carpet scratched her toes and crinkled slightly under the weight of her heels, and the walls were peppered with what appeared to be stolen movie posters with torn and fraying edges. Souvenirs scattered across various shelves and tables—anything with a smooth surface bore some sort of seashell collective, glittering glass coin jars, fragments of stone and crystal, faded photographs in worn frames, or family upon family of stuffed plush toys. Brightly colored blankets draped over the furniture, each with a different pattern. Along the right wall, Alexis could glimpse into the kitchen, where a small tower of yellow-tinged dishes lay abandoned in a soap-streaked sink. She could barely catch all the details—how much more was Mr. Holmes absorbing through that tactical gaze of his? She couldn't even fathom that amount of information in a single sweep. Staring at his shoulder blades, she wondered if she could physically see the circuitry spark behind those icy green eyes if he turned around. She half-expected him to pause and scan the room, but if anything, his speed had hastened. At the end of a short hallway, Inspector Lestrade stood agitatedly with his deep gray lines of frustration etched across his cheeks. “I told you to watch over her, Sherlock, not drag her along to murder investigations.”

“She needed the exercise.”

“She shouldn't be here, Sherlock!”

“And technically, neither should I, and yet here I stand, to your good fortune.” Sherlock flashed a disingenuous smile.

“I didn't ask you to let her stay with you just so you could gallivant around and pull her into your little games!”

“Well I was _going_ to leave her in the kennel with the water bowl all day, but she flashed those big sad eyes at me and I just couldn't resist.” The bitterness in his voice burned in its impatience. “Now should I put a leash on her, or do you trust her not to chew up your crime scene?”

Lestrade's face fell slightly in frustration. “I'm not worried about what she'll do, I'm worried about why she's _here_.”

“She's _here_ to help me, is that good enough for you?”

“How in the blazes is she going to help you?”

“By listening and breathing, and so far, she's being far more helpful that _you_ ,” Sherlock snapped back. “Now if you don't mind, Inspector, the body.”

Lestrade hesitated, but Sherlock's eyes had narrowed , the consonants falling harshly off his tongue. Lestrade sighed and turned to let Sherlock into the bedroom just behind him. The Inspector scanned Alexis again and groaned. “Sherlock, you couldn't even give her proper clothes? It's freezing out there, and she's wearing sandals!”

“You're one to talk; we took a cab, her feet are fine.” Sherlock had already pushed past him, body posture trained towards the scent of death. Alexis followed after, nearly colliding into the detective's back as he perched just inside the entrance, his form completely still and terse. Alexis stepped to the side, and immediately discovered the reason why.

A woman was splayed on the bed, lying on her back with limbs hanging awkwardly from her frame. Her tangled brown hair encompassed her scalp like a mane, and her neck was arched like a broken plant. Her eyes were open, jaw partially askew to reveal a small row of teeth. Her top had been torn off, revealing a stained pink bra that probably was intended to stay concealed. A deep “V” had been carved into her chest from shoulder to diaphragm, the wound dark and smooth across her soured pale skin. Blood coated her chest and neck, drying into a dark crust that traced her sternum.

“Oh, John would have loved this.”

Alexis stared at the detective's bemused face. “What?”

“I can hear his insipid blog titles now. _The V Woman. The 22_ _nd_ _Letter._ Something regarding _V For Vendetta_.”

“You really don't give him a lot of points for creativity, do you?”

“If anything, he should be less concerned about creativity and more focused on the proper analysis of our cases. He tends to forgo the science and portrays everything with an air of romanticism.”

“And yet you think the best title he'd come up with is _The V Woman._ ”

“Well, it's not like I'm going to exert energy thinking of something to call it,” Sherlock scoffed. “It's ridiculous, and anyway, that's not part of my job.”

“Then what exactly is your part of the job?”

“To notice the actually extraordinary things.” A pointed grin curled Sherlock's mouth, sharp and satisfied. “Do you see it?”

Alexis turned back to the body. “Hm...it's not the giant _V_ on her chest?”

“No, no, that's the obvious thing, look for the important thing.”

“Her shirt's gone...?”

“That's hardly relevant.”

“The color of the bedsheets...?”

“Please.”

“Well, I know one thing, she's probably, most likely, very possibly not breathing.”

Sherlock glowered, and Alexis immediately regretted the remark. “Sorry, that was rude. What is it then?”

Sherlock gestured around him with the flaps of his coat. “She was cut open—where's the blood?”

Alexis frowned. “Well, there's some on her chest.”

“Oh, that's not nearly enough for that type of wound, and besides, look at the trajectory. There's none anywhere else, on her sheets, her blankets, the carpet, the wall, nothing. Not a single drop touched anywhere that gravity would dictate it to. If she was cut here, where's the blood?”

Of course, obvious—the rest of the room looked freshly slept in, with all the cozy disorganization found in the comforts of home. “Maybe she was stabbed somewhere else?”

“No evidence of a struggle anywhere else in the flat.”

“Maybe she wasn't killed in the flat?”

“Of course she was killed in the flat, she hasn't left it in two weeks.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Oh, please, have you seen this place? The rooms were musty, the furniture is all recently worn from increased use, the trash pile is egregious, the television is practically still warm, and she's down to eating canned chili on stale crackers, judging by the looks of that kitchen sink. She hasn't even bothered to order take-out, and has been smoking her cigarettes in the hallways just outside her flat—the smell is fresh.”

Alexis paused. “I really need to stop asking that question, don't I.”

“It's a slow learning curve. You'll catch on eventually.”

“What kind of person doesn't even go outside to smoke?”

“Either a really inconsiderate one, an extremely lazy one, or a very scared one.” Sherlock regarded the body carefully. “And as of now, an exceptionally dead one.”

“Tell us something we don't know,” Lestrade barked from behind them, leaning on the door frame.

“Oh, my dear Inspector, I don't even know where I'd start.”

“Might I suggest with that body?”

“As you wish.” Sherlock approached the edge of the bed dramatically, gingerly touching the woman's pale wrist. “Rigor mortis has set in, so the murder was recent, potentially within 2-6 hours. Body has been drained of the majority of her blood, but whatever traces of that remain have settled into her shoulders, head, and fingers, suggesting that at some point, our victim was hanging upside down. There are wounds on her neck and face from a confrontation at some point before she died.” His eyes traced down the woman's arm. “No signs of a ring, raggedy underwear, and the explicit lack of matching dishware suggests that she probably doesn't entertain much, so no romantic affiliations. She works as a secretary in a publishing firm, and has been passed over for promotion again.” He glanced up to Alexis out of the corner of his eyes. Her face must have been skeptical, because he turned back to the body with purpose. “Her fingernails are trimmed for easy maneuverability and slightly laborious office tasks, and there's ink still smudged on the inside of her index finger. Her phone—if you can see it on the headboard—is at least five years old and the bottom is taped together, suggesting that she either despises change or—more likely—hasn't been able to afford the cost of replacing it.”

“Can you tell us anything else about the murder itself, Sherlock?” Lestrade spat.

“I'm getting there,” Sherlock quipped back, slightly offended by the rush of his reveal. He took his hand off of her wrist, tracing the woman's chin with gloved fingers. “Her eyes are bloodshot from lack of oxygen, perhaps sustained in the struggle. Her attacker had to overpower her.”

“She had a hard time breathing while someone killed her. Brilliant.”

“So impatient, Lestrade, I thought you'd know better.” Sherlock straightened. “Are the marital strains bleeding over to your work life again? Your ring was shoved rather hastily onto your finger this morning.”

“You said she was upside down,” Lestrade retorted quietly. “Where was she hanging then?”

“Well, not in here,” Sherlock answered, standing and spinning to inspect the ceiling. “No viable contact points, and no blood pools.”

“Somewhere else in the flat then?”

“No, she died in this room. Her phone is here, and the mattress around her is still somewhat warm.” His eyes flickered to the ajar bathroom door. “Any signs of a struggle in the bathroom?”

“Don't you think I would've said something by now?” A strange voice echoed in the bathroom, followed by a man draped in a blue plastic forensic suit.

“Andersen, wonderful for you to join us.” Sherlock's drawl dripped with disappointment.

“The bathtub is relatively clean, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing smells like bleach, either, so nothing major was cleaned up in there.” Andersen's eyes fell on Alexis, and immediately darkened. “What is _she_ doing here?”

“She's assisting Sherlock today, apparently,” Lestrade interjected.

“Oh, you cannot be serious!” Andersen was suddenly fuming, and Alexis immediately shrunk into herself, hiding beneath John's coat. “It's bad enough that you bring him,” he growled while shaking a finger at Sherlock, “but now you let _any_ ratty stray walk into a crime scene and play detective?”

“Andersen, calm down-”

“I will not calm down! I've spent the entirety of my adult life training for this job, and now apparently anyone can pile in this circus of a police force?” He turned his finger onto Alexis. “She wasn't even _talking_ a week ago—she couldn't form a bloody sentence!”

“Andersen, she's not here to interfere.”

“Oh, believe me, she won't.” Andersen stormed forward and seized Alexis's arm, roughly pulling her back towards the bathroom. Alexis froze, stumbling under Andersen's sudden force. Her arm blistered in pain where Andersen's fingers dug into the bruises on her elbow. Lestrade and Sherlock both audibly protested, but couldn't move quickly enough before Andersen tossed her into the bathroom.

“Andersen, she's my _assistant_!” Sherlock snarled.

“Then let her _assist_ you by counting the ceiling tiles,” Andersen snapped. Sherlock began to raise his voice, but Lestrade's bark overwhelmed him.

“Sherlock, just...just let him cool down first.” His tone lowered menacingly. “And Andersen, don't you ever lay hands on her again, or you'll be looking for another circus of a police force to work for.”

Alexis stopped listening, rubbing her sore arm as she stared around the bathroom. It wasn't like she had been much of help out there, anyway. Might as well do some mundane observations in the bathroom, if it irritated him so much. She walked slowly to the tub, lilac-colored shampoo bottles lining the edge with residue stuck on their sides. There was a ring of soap scum on the tinged interior of the tub—not a single trace of bodily fluid, at least that Alexis could see. She casually stooped and lifted the toilet lid next, almost out of humor—she paused, however, frowning into the clear water that caught the dim yellow glow of the lightbulbs over the sink. Pulling the toilet seat to its full height, Alexis knelt in front of the toilet, the porcelain chilled against the skin of her leg.

“Find something special?”

Alexis's head jerked up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, barely able to shield his curiosity behind his slight amusement. Alexis frowned, suddenly embarrassed of what she had thoughtlessly suspected. “I thought...nothing, it's stupid.”

She moved to stand, but Sherlock held up a stern hand, freezing her in place. “Sit. Speak.”

 _Arf_ , Alexis thought bitterly, her face flushing at the continuous dog references. A pang of humiliation echoed in her chest, and more than anything, she wanted Sherlock's intense stare off of her. “It's...it's not...I mean...it's clean,” she managed to stammer.

“Of course it is,” Andersen snorted from behind the detective. A spike of anger flurried in Alexis's stomach.

“No, it's spotless. There's not even a water line in this bowl.”

“So, she cleans her bathroom. Throws soap in her toilet every now and then.”

“You don't understand, I cleaned these things for an entire summer. Soap doesn't magically get a toilet clean. Besides, you saw her kitchen—why would would someone clean where they defecated but not where they eat? This sort of thing takes time; someone sat down and physically scrubbed this toilet to perfection.” Her eyes fells on the space between Sherlock's arm and Lestrade's shoulder. “Has anyone checked the trash?”

“Checked the trash for what?” Lestrade demanded. “There's a mountain of it.”

“Yes, there is,” Andersen commented sweetly, “which means, kiddo, if you really want it, it's all yours.”

“Andersen, don't assign her to your dirty work,” Lestrade started to protest, but Alexis had jumped to her feet and ducked under Sherlock's arm to pass the inspector. She turned to Andersen with narrow eyes.

“Are you at least going to lend me gloves, or are you going to let me sift at my own risk?”

“Be my guest,” Andersen grumbled. “My kit is in the hallway, have at it.”

“Andersen, that's evidence!”

“No, it's garbage, and now it's one less day where I'm up to it in my elbows.”

“Not that I don't appreciate the enthusiasm, but this is a murder investigation. I can't let you treat this crime scene like a playground.” He turned to Sherlock, flustered. “For God's sake, Sherlock, tell her!”

Sherlock, however, glanced to Alexis nonchalantly. “At least she's being proactive.”

“But having her do this—it's completely pointless!”

“And yet you're still here,” Sherlock clipped back. His eyes flickered to his assistant calmly. “Go on, assure him.”

Alexis swallowed nervously. “I know this isn't quite...conventional, but I have an idea. Mr. Holmes would know better than me, of course, but it makes sense. If I'm completely wrong—which I'm not gonna lie, is a possibility—then this little job of mine doesn't hurt anything anyway. If anything, it gets me out of your hair for a few minutes.” Before she could completely talk herself out of it, Alexis rushed to the door and slipped into the hallway, snapping her legs into a hurried stride to get out of sight. Her body was trembling with uncertainty, but the adrenaline was starting to make her feel slightly light-headed as her eyes fell on the kit laying in the hallway.

Lestrade's stare followed her until she left his vision, and he emitted an angry sigh. “Andersen, go follow her and make sure she stays out of trouble.”

Andersen's face contorted with insult. “But-”

“ _Go!_ ” Lestrade's rough shout startled the forensic scientist, husky with frustration. With a grumble, Andersen set his shoulders and stormed out the door, walking stiffly down the hallway to trail Alexis reluctantly. Once the man had shuffled out, Lestrade turned to Sherlock with an arched eyebrow. “ 'Mr. Holmes'?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, huffing to examine the body at the foot of the bed. “People do call me that, you know.”

“I know, it's just...weird. Not used to people acting like they like you.”

“And what makes you think she likes me?” Sherlock vent to see the body at eye-level, knees hovering near his shoulders. “I hardly think she uses that title as a term of endearment.”

“Well you clearly don't seem to mind her,” Lestrade commented, folding his arms. “I thought you might eventually tell me you're allergic to her.”

“It's statistically improbable to be allergic to chihuahuas,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock stood to his feet again, eyes flickering around the room. His legs lengthened into gentle strides towards the back wall. His fingers traced the dark wooden pane of the window, scratching against the ridges of his fingerprints. “Who called this in, Lestrade?” he asked, brow furrowing.

Lestrade frowned in return. “Neighbor across the street called, seemed frantic, could barely get enough information out of her before the call dropped. The service in this area is terrible.”

Sherlock sniffed the class, nostrils flaring precisely before he scooped his hands under the window and thrust it open. He leaned his upper body into the opening, a light breeze fluttering the lapels on his coat and teasing his wild mess of hair. The morning air prickled at his skin as he looked first across the street, scanning the rows of buildings that lined the pavement like a row of teeth, bared and brutal. He then lowered his gaze, eyes lighting with a spark of understanding. His mouth pulled into a flat, toneless grin, and Lestrade shifted agitatedly at Sherlock's prolonged silence.

“Did you fancy some fresh air?”

“Don't be rude, Lestrade, it's less becoming on you that your simplicity.”

“Did you find something interesting?”

Sherlock glanced down where the rustic interior of the building bore thick drapes of blood. An enormous dark stripe stained the wall, branching and fanning as it dripped down towards the sidewalk. The gore rippled down the wood, soaking into the creases of the wall in a hungry tongue of sanguine thirst. The streams had coagulated, reaching like claws to claim the roughened surface. “I'd say so,” Sherlock answered lightly.

Lestrade leaned onto his other leg, restless. “Well...? What'd you find?”

“Well come see for yourself, no need to suddenly get shy at your own crime scene.” Sherlock dipped out of the window, holding the glass with one hand for Lestrade to come investigate. Lestrade stepped forward skeptically, shoving his head outside and glaring down the side of the building. Immediately, his expression crumbled from impatience to shock.

“Jesus...”

“I think it's fair to assume that this is where our victim was sliced—she was hung out out the window by her feet and left to bleed out.”

“And _no one_ saw this?”

“Well, clearly someone did. The hour of her death was simply early enough in the morning to buy her killer time.”

“But surely someone would have heard the screaming?”

Sherlock tapped Lestrade's sleeve as the inspector pulled his body back into the room. “She was cut approximately five centimeters through her thoracic cavity, through her lungs and diaphragm,” Sherlock explained, tracing the same V-pattern on Lestrade's chest with his finger. “That makes it slightly difficult to call for help.”

“You mean to tell me that there was no struggle, at all? She just laid back and let a strange cut her open?”

Sherlock placed his hands in his pockets and gave a small grin. “Of course not.”

“Then where's the broken furniture? There should be things knocked over, complaints about noise, something.”

“I think,” Sherlock drawled while stepping towards the door, “we should give a visit to my assistant downstairs.”

* * * * *

“Don't tell me you're afraid of a little garbage.”

“I'm not afraid of it,” Alexis snapped, perched over the bin with elbows.angled awkwardly over the gaping mouth of a strained bag of trash. John's jacket lay at her feet, folded as best as the stiff fabric would allow. She had contorted her body away from the bin, but her efforts so far were proving to be slightly futile. A streak of of residue had already crept halfway to her elbow, and the plastic teal gloves on her hands were coated with grit.

Andersen's smirk was burning into the back of her neck. “You volunteered for this, you know.”

“Excuse me for trying not to splatter garbage on a dress that isn't mine,” Alexis retorted.

Andersen snorted. “In that thing, it might be an improvement.”

Alexis sighed through her nose, silently apologizing for dousing Mrs. Hudson's dress in whatever buffet of odors were going to linger in its fibers after this. She learned forwards, fingers spiking and diving between discolored items of trash. “It figures,” she muttered, trying to ignore the cold sensations that enveloped her hands.

“What figures?”

“You ever hear the rule about women's purses?”

“The bigger the better?”

“Um...no.”

“Brand names magically make them worth exorbitant amounts of money?”

“What? No.”

“Well how would I know any rule about women's purses?”

“You don't need to get defensive, it's okay not to know something.”

“Dear God, you're just as big of a drama queen as _him_. No wonder you two get along so well.”

Alexis paused and sat back on her heels, glancing up to Andersen incredulously. “That's him 'getting along'?”

“He brought you here, didn't he?”

“That's only because I was slightly more convenient than the skull on his mantelpiece.”

Andersen smirked briefly. “I forgot about that stupid skull.”

“Was it like a scene out of Hamlet when he'd bring it?”

“I told you, he's a drama whore. When he wasn't prancing around arguing with the bloody thing, he'd either put it on his head or make someone else hold it for him.”

Alexis grinned. “Did he make you hold the skull?”

Andersen's frown was all the answer she needed. She choked back a chuckle at the thought of Andersen pouting while holding the skull with all the loathsome and forced care he could muster as to not upset its owner. “He seems so professional, is he really that much of a show-off?”

Andersen scoffed. “Professional, hardly. I could tell some stories.”

“Like...?”

“Have you heard about the human eyes in the microwave?”

“Exensively.”

“How about the time he saved a litter of kittens on accident?”

“Wait, what?”

“He was investigating a disappearance where he suspected the victim had been cut to pieces and was being disposed bit by bit. He kept finding body parts scattered across the city, but they were all too badly damaged and decomposed for DNA identification. They gave him some clues, but not enough to narrow it down—he needed the head or the hands to confirm who the victim was, and he needed something directly linking to a murderer. He had one suspect that he followed a while, and one night he caught the guy tossing a bag of something into the river. Sherlock was so excited—he thought for sure that there was a head in the bag. John incapacitated the suspect while Sherlock ran down to claim his prize before it floated away or sank out of sight. He stormed back up onto the walkway, bag in hand, sopping wet and absolutely furious. Turns out the man had been trying to get rid of a litter of kittens his cat had just had, and Sherlock had rescued them instead of a human head. Oh, was he disappointed...he had wanted to find the head so badly, and instead he came became an unwilling hero against animal cruelty. He moped for weeks.”

“Oh, the poor guy.”

“It didn't help when John posted that case in the blog. Everyone painted Sherlock as some selfless kitty sensation—Sherlock thought John was mocking him. He ended up shredding one of John's jumpers for the litter box in retaliation.”

“For the litter...wait, he didn't keep the kittens?”

“He refused to give them to the shelter—after all the trouble he went through to unintentionally save them, he wasn't going to risk giving them to someone just to have them euthanized. He brought them back to Baker Street and sold them out of the flat—221B was cat central for about a month. Apparently his landlady was livid.”

“You're a little happier about this story than I expected.”

“He was absolutely miserable, according to John's blog. Apparently you haven't lived until you've seen the famous detective Sherlock Holmes try to work his mind magic while trying to keep this cat from falling off his lap while another cat tries to rub its face on his cheekbones while simultaneously trying to keep another cat from clawing up his armchair, all while holding that pose of his in front of a client.”

“He poses while he thinks?”

“Sometimes.” Andersen mimicked the position, splaying his fingers in front of his throat. “Hands together, fingers under the chin. Some fort of feng shui thing.”

Muffled footsteps came from the hallway, crescendoing as Sherlock and Lestrade hurried into the kitchen area with large steps. Sherlock cast a bemused glance to Andersen, who still had his hands to his own neck. “Trying something new, are we, Andersen?”

Andersen scowled, dropping his hands to his sides. “Just making a little small talk,” he snapped coldly.

“I know, I could smell your cynicism from the other room.” Sherlock turned to Alexis. “Have you found it?”

Alexis dropped her eyes, angry at herself for taking so long. “Almost. I was telling Mr. Andersen, it always seems to be the rule that whatever you're looking for...” Her fingers grazed a familiar texture, and she grasped it excitedly. She carefully maneuvered her arm from the matrix of garbage, gingerly raised her hand to expose a gray, cylindrical object. “Is on the bottom.”

Andersen leaned over her shoulder. “Doesn't look like anything special.”

“It's a pummice stone. It'll get anything off a toilet bowl, and,” she added as she lifted the stone for Andersen to see, “there's a bit of blood on it.”

“Menstrual?”

“There's too much for that. It's recently used.”

“So she cleaned her bathroom before she was murdered.”

“Again, why clean the toilet and not her dishes?” Alexis gestured to the kitchen. “Look at this place, she wasn't worried about being clean.”

“Then what's the significance of a little gross scrubbing stone?” Lestrade barked.

Alexis looked to Sherlock, pleading she had guessed right. “Mr. Holmes, was she drowned?”

Andersen smirked. “Drowned? Did you miss the giant gaping hole in her chest?”

“Of course she drowned,” Sherlock retorted sharply.

Lestrade glanced to Sherlock incredulously. “And when exactly did you determine that?”

“I could tell the moment I entered the room. Of course, I suspected an alternative method of murder the moment I saw the wound in her chest—it's much too smooth. If she had struggled, the edges would be ragged, but the marks are practically artistic. The veins in her eyes have burst from a struggle, and as I soon determined, asphyxiation. The marks on her face were masked by the gravitational blood from her chest wound. I believe she sustained these particular injuries while thrashing against her attacker and hitting her face and head repeatedly against the toilet bowl, where her killer held her underwater in an attempt to keep things relatively contained.”

“That seems like a lot of theatrics for a murder. Why go through all the extra effort?”

Sherlock smirked. “Why, indeed.” His eyes darted to Alexis playfully. “Now, then, if you're done rooting through the garbage, I do believe we've impeded our officers' investigation long enough.”

“You're leaving already?” Lestrade barked.

“Well, I'd hardly want to jeopardize your standing with the Yard, God knows what damage I've already done while being here.” Sherlock closed his coat, crooking an impatient finger to Alexis. “After all, this certainly one party I wanted to be invited back to again.”

“But we still haven't determined anything about who did this.”

“You're an inspector, Lestrade, take a stab at it.” His brow furrowed sternly, although his small grin persisted. “Honestly, Lestrade, I can't do _everything_ for you.” Alexis fumbled to remove her gloves, trying to remember the proper process and failing miserably. She tossed the coat around her shoulders and tucked the gloves in the pocket as she stood to her feet, nearly missing the pocket on her first swipe. “I'm afraid we must wish you a good day, gentlemen, come along then.” With a last cordial order, Sherlock turned on his heel, coat flapping behind him as he sauntered towards the door. Alexis jogged shortly to keep up, sandals obnoxiously slapping against her heels as she scuttered through the doorway.

Sherlock had placed his hands into his pockets, and Alexis jammed his own hands into the depths of John's jacket to follow suit. She glanced up to the detective out of the corner of her eye. “Was that a crime scene joke?” she finally asked.

“Hm?”

“'Take a stab at it'?”

“Just adding a little color.” Sherlock gave a small grin.

“'A little color' was the last thing that place needed.”

Sherlock chuckled, which was an an encouraging sign to Alexis. The two stepped outside, the cold smacking into Alexis with enough force to labor her breathing for a moment. Immediately, Sherlock casually skipped down the stairs, eyes scanning the streets for the familiar black hull of a cab. Alexis followed, trying not to shiver pathetically next to him on the sidewalk. A few quiet seconds passed before she sighed, a pale cloud of breath unfurling around her face. “You knew.”

“Of course, that shouldn't be too surprising by this point.”

“You knew she was drowned.”

“The signs were all there.”

“Well I feel like an idiot, making a fuss over that stupid pummice stone.”

Sherlock glanced to her inquiringly. “Why would that make you feel like an idiot?”

“You had to know what I was looking for, and yet you still let me do it. I got all excited and everything. You had to know that stone was there.”

“Not necessarily.” Sherlock straightened, pressing his shoulders back. “I knew that the killer had used the stone, but not that he had been in such a hurry that he didn't bother to dispose of it, or even clean it properly. He left it behind, and that in itself is very telling.”

“A mistake on his part?”

“Perhaps, but I'm hesitant to make that assumption. He left the body in the open for someone to find, then positioned it on the bed for whoever got to her first. He drowned her and cleaned the evidence, which suggests an attempt at anonymity, and yet his other methods are either unforgivably amateurish, or...”

He trailed off, causing Alexis to glance to him with a furrowed brow. “Or?”

“Or, he wanted the body the body to be found. A message to the woman's associates, perhaps, maybe a warning in a bad business.” He raised his hand to an upcoming cab, which gleamed in the garish daylight. “Don't fret over the stone—in any case, the effort is appreciated.”

Alexis tightened her mouth in a half smile, indecisive on how to process that particular reaction. “Did I at least do better than the skull?”

Sherlock flashed the first genuine smile he had given all morning, chuckling lowly in his chest. The cab slowed ahead of them before Sherlock reached for the handle, opening the door and gesturing for her to slide into the automobile ahead of him. Alexis quietly climbed in, struggling to scoot to the other dark window while keeping her skirt to her knees. “What happens now?” she asked tentatively as Sherlock stooped gracefully to his seat.

“Well, I don't know about you, but I haven't had my morning tea yet, and I tend to get a little hard to work with without it.”

“But what about the crime scene?”

“Rarely does a crime exist neatly within the confines of police tape.” Sherlock's grin was pernicious now, the anticipation of the chase sparkling in his eyes. “We have some research to do.”

“We...?”

“Well, of course.” Sherlock laid back into his seat, folding his legs as he shut the door next to his waist. “I could benefit from a little terrier running around for me.”

From anyone else, that remark would have been tremendously offensive. Even now, Alexis bit back a bitter image of what she must look like through Sherlock's precise gaze: a mangy panting mutt, wagging her tail at him. However, a small part of her warmed from the fact that Mr. Holmes had nonchalantly upgraded her from the morning breed of choice; maybe, in his own way, that was his way of giving a compliment.

“And the name is Sherlock, by the way.”

Alexis glanced over to him skeptically, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by him. He turned to his window, chewing back a smirk. “ _Mr. Holmes_ comes out too awkwardly, and I don't care for wasted time trying to struggle through something as basic as my name. _Sherlock_ is simple enough—two syllables, to the point.”

The tiny swell of pride Alexis had felt from Sherlock's small display of faith in her deflated quickly. _He thinks I can't manage three whole syllables_ , she thought incredulously. At least she couldn't accidentally mistake the gesture for familiarity. “Sherlock, then,” she replied, testing the name on her tongue. Well, to her chagrin, it did fall easier out of her mouth—it took less care to spit it out.

“Good girl, already an improvement.”

 _Good girl_? She couldn't tell if he was purposefully poking fun at her or if he really was that thick-headed. “So what do you need me to do?” she asked, trying to distract her snide inner commentary.

Sherlock seemed easily distracted, slipping his phone from his coat and fumbling with the keys. Alexis stared at him heatedly for a few moments, expecting him to feel the tension in the silence as she awaited his answer. He seemed to have momentarily forgotten there was anyone else in the cab with him. With a stifled sigh, Alexis turned back to her window and dropped her face into the palm of her hand. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be the stray of Baker Street—at least she got to sleep on the furniture.

“Catch.”

Alexis jumped at the sudden demand and clumsily caught the projectile phone before it slammed into the unforgiving door of the cab. She glowered at Sherlock, who was staring deeply directly ahead of him. _Did he expect me to catch it with my mouth like a frisbee?_ “You shouldn't throw things at me unless you want them broken,” she snapped.

“I need you to read my text messages to me.”

Alexis blinked. “Can you not read your own phone?”

“I'm thinking,” he growled gently, the tones low in his throat.

Alexis stared unbelievingly. “That doesn't even make sense.”

Sherlock broken his concentration and scowled in her direction. “You said you wanted to help.”

Alexis barely managed to avoid rolling her eyes as she turned defeatedly to the phone in her hands. “One from Lestrade,” she commented, “with language I'd rather not repeat out loud.”

“The usual. Next.”

“You have one from 'Molly'; she says the brain tissue was gray, not blue.”

“I knew it, that eliminates Mr. Hopsworth as a suspect, he'll be pleased.”

“Last one's from Dr. Watson,” Alexis continued, eyes narrowing. “He says that he sent what you wanted to your email, and that he only did it because it was better than you hacking the entire system and getting carried away.” She raised a skeptical eyebrow towards Sherlock. “What exactly did you ask him to do?”

“Something very unethical, taboo, and explicitly illegal in his field.”

“So, a small favor in your world.”

Sherlock's lips twitched into a quick smirk. “Nothing his conscience won't survive,” he replied casually. His eyes glanced out at her window, and he quickly tapped the seat in front of him next to alert the driver. “Let us out here.”

The cab immediately slowed, nearing the sidewalk obediently. Alexis turned to see outside, where a quaint faded diner perched just outside her window. “We're not going back to Baker Street?”

“I need some tea, and you need to eat. I helped the owner paint his walls, so I get a significant gratitude discount.”

“But I'm not hungry...”

“You may not be, but your body certainly is. You are ten and half pounds underweight, and Lestrade will flay me alive in you lose another ounce.” He grasped the clutch on his door and nudged it open. Alexis did the same, albeit skeptically.

“You can't expect me to believe you're afraid of Inspector Lestrade.”

“Well, no, but he'll lecture me while I'm in the lab trying to work.”

“Well, we can't have that, now, can we?” Alexis smile gently as she stepped out of the vehicle, hovering near the warmth as Sherlock tossed some money to the driver. “I thought you forgot that back in the flat?”

“Found some extra in these pants' pockets,” Sherlock replied dismissively before he stepped back, closing his door carefully. “Think you can choke back some coffee and eggs for my sake? It's my treat.”

Alexis closed her door, and the cab crept away. “You have to answer a question for me first.”

Sherlock's brow furrowed curiously as we walked to the curb. His mouth pressed into a frown. “Which is...?”

“Have you deduced how I take my coffee yet?”

His eyes widened slightly, before his face twisted into a hard, mischievous grin. He paused next to her on the sidewalk, glancing to her over his shoulder. “Oh, please, give me a hard one.”


	4. The Mind and the Moth

 These dreams always started in darkness. At some point during the night, the colors that flurried in the comforting black of Alexis' eyelids imploded as she drifted into deep, dreaded sleep. Even the subtle hints of shadows had sunken into the lightless onyx around her—the very air hung heavily upon her body. Salt haunted her breath, filling her nostrils and sticking inside her mouth. She could hear herself inhale, guttural and labored. Otherwise, the silence around her was deafening; the dark swallowed her sounds. Her neck seared with a wave of unreleased wails—the outburst remained paralyzed in her lungs.

The aches returned in her arms, boring like fangs into her flesh. She whimpered in response, desperately grappling at her elbows with her fingers. Her fingertips brushed something cold and metallic, several thin spikes thrust into the tender meat at the joint and hungrily supping on the veins. Alexis withdrew her hands, shaking. Pain still blistered underneath her skin, but she dared not touch the silver slivers of teeth buried into her arms. Suddenly, the air had turned algid; the chill prickled the skin on her face and scraped the surface of her lips. She remained perfectly still, eyes straining uselessly into the dark. Something had joined her.

She clenched her teeth together, trying to keep them from chattering. A familiar sense of fear squeezed her chest, a heavy weight in her ribs as she craned her neck in order to look for any hint of her surroundings, draped in the thick mat of blackness. That was when she felt the metal behind her head—something hard and flat pressed painfully into her back, pinching the muscles of her shoulder-blades. Dazed in the dark, she hadn't realized her physical orientation—she was horizontal, lying on her back and staring into the lightless ceiling somewhere far above her face. She blinked, exaggerating the motion to be sure that her muscles had moved, as she couldn't tell by her vision alone. Her nerves still percolated as the presence in the room still lingered. Her fingers trembled as she clutched them together, knuckles scraping against the cold surface beneath her hips. Around her, the walls groaned deeply, moaning like the belly of a beast with metallic breaths. The sound resonated lowly in her chest, causing her heart to quiver with an overwhelming ache of terror; those groans were a song loathsomely old to her ears, a dearth that had echoed in her head for what had felt like an eternity. That sound was a hymn of death, shivering through the air with a heavy tongue.

A gentler hush struck rhythmically against the walls, which Alexis suddenly recognized as waves. She had listened to the lulling percussion of the ocean against the side of a ship for nearly all of her life; the soft, repetitive collision soothed her, under most circumstances. She could determine she was at sea now; that fact settled into her frazzled brain naturally, as if she had always known. She nearly felt the depths of the ocean beneath her back, the frigid gargantuan waters open like a throat prepared to swallow her and the frozen metal husk enveloping her.

“... _'Lexis_...?”

The sound startled Alexis, emitting only a few feet from her right shoulder. Her head whipped to the side towards the source of the whisper, the cold surface behind her now pressed into her cheek. She attempted desperately to dissect the dark with her eyes, to see the face that had whimpered her name. Only blackness greeted her, accompanied by the sound of her breathing, which can become more labored and smacked her spine repeatedly into the surface that supported her back. The air coated the inside of her throat like paste, burning her lungs with a sour and slowly rising sense of fear. The taste of salt saturated her mouth.

“ _Please_.” The voice was breaking now, the words trembling from tired lips. It was high and rough, the frightened voice of a child. Dehydration and exhaustion had sapped it to a remained scrap of life, leaving the voice husky and weak. Alexis heard it crack into a weeping, shaking inhale. “ _Save me_.”

With that last tremulous plea, Alexis' body became rigid, fingers curling like claws as her nails scraped the surface beneath her. Her back arched into the air, every muscle squeezing with brutalizing force. Her chest crushed the last ounce of air from her lungs, leaving her gaping and breathless at the apex of her arc before her body crashed back down, a surge of blinding pain flooding her nerves. Every tendon tremored, her body spasming violently against the hard surface. She could barely feel the bruising from the blows or the metal ripping through the tender flesh of her arms—an enormous molten swell of burning agony rose from her core and spread like a fever through her extremities. Her viens boiled, skull rattling against metal from the sharp excruciating convulsions ripping through her ribcage. A powerful contraction tore through her torso and whipped her upper body into the air, her neck searing with a scream that tasted of blood before a final wave of white eclipsed her vision.

* * * *

Alexis woke with a start, jolting forward into the cushion of the couch which she was gripping with bloodless knuckles. The material squeaked under her trembling hold, her body still quivering stiffly. She forced herself to blink, sucking in air through her nose as her lips pulled tight, throat still scorching from choked screams that she refused to release. The dreams always ended eventually, but the aftermath left her hollow; the terror and the emptiness haunted her, echoing in her chest. Consciousness never consoled her; it merely let the isolation sink in and threaten to let her crumble. Sweat saturated her cheek, but she dared not wipe at it. She caged her fear in a frozen body as it flared in her sternum, which she fought to suppress with every cracking inhale. Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears, and she focused on its aching rhythm. The blood in her head rattled with every percussive swell, but her grip tightened in her concentration; her jaw clenched as she attempted to keep her face from crumpling into tears. Slowly, the violent pulses abated slightly, releasing its hold on the sore lining of Alexis' skull. The overwhelming adrenaline began to drain from her veins, allowing her to feel the ache in her rigid muscles. Closing her eyes, she cautiously lowered her forehead to the cushion, the cool material sticking to her skin as she focused on her breathing.

“Sleep well?”

Alexis jerked backwards, arms instinctively straightening and shoving herself into the back of the couch away from the voice. Wisps of hair fell into her face, eyes wide and frantic. A stranger sat in the armchair in front of her, facing her with his legs crossed and a tight bemused smile. His broad face accentuated the compact features which seemed misfitting, the youthful countenance veiled in an ominous demeanor. The fibers of his suit strained against his wide body, and his grooming was immaculate from the tips of his manicured fingernails to the short dark locks tapered on his high hairline. He gingerly placed a cup of tea—one of John's cups, Alexis noted—onto the saucer resting on his lap, eyes glimmering. “I don't imagine that you did. More than understandable.”

“How did you get in here?” Alexis' voice was husky and strained, her tongue languid in her acrid mouth. She swallowed hard. “Who in the hell are you?”

“Don't remember me? I don't suppose you would, it was so early in your...recovery, you barely remembered your own name.” He lifted the cup again and sipped delicately, thin lips curled carefully around the steam. “Even so, I can't pretend I'm not disappointed.” He glanced to her indignant face, brow creasing in a tinge of frustration. “I believe you'll find that the front door is a good answer to your first question, if that's what you're waiting for.”

Alexis struggled to keep herself from shaking, both from the residual effects of her dream and from the presence of this intruder. “I'll call the police.”

“Oh, do use this then, won't you?” The man retrieved a small back phone from his blazer pocket and held it out calmly to her with two fingers. “I want to make sure the service works properly.”

Her eyes narrowed, stare darting incredulously from the phone to the man's smug, emotionless grin. “You think I'm joking.”

“Oh, I know you're not joking. I'm just not threatened.” He shook the phone invitingly, as one would tantalize an animal with a strip of meat. “Now please, take it.”

“I'm not checking your phone.”

“It's not my phone, it's your phone.”

Alexis's brow furrowed angrily. “I don't know what you take me for, but you better get out before I call 911.”

“Well, first of all, you may have more luck phoning 999,” the man clipped, his smirk widening impatiently. “Secondly, pardon me if I don't quake in fear, as I don't think the police would be overly concerned with an older brother making a friendly visit to check up on his younger sibling.”

“Brother...?” Alexis scanned the man, wishing she had Sherlock there to point out the observations she was missing in trying to read this man. She could imagine it now—Sherlock would stand there with that bemused little cocky grin of his, mouth pulled into that predatory curl of the lip...the same one reflected in this's trespasser's line of a mouth. “Sherlock's brother...?”

“There you go,” he drawled, the sarcasm saturating his voice.

“How do I know that's the truth?”

“Do you doubt it?”

Alexis scanned him again with piercing eyes. Physically, this man wouldn't appear to be in any sort of relation to the Sherlock Holmes she knew—he was too bureaucratic, too primped and armored in a cold face and tailored suits to match the rebellious mind of 221 Baker Street. Whereas Sherlock's face was angled and hardened, this person had avian features set in a round face, the shape of his skull emphasizing the gaunt shape of his lips, the elongated point of his nose, and the high groomed arches of his eyebrows. Still, there was something there that echoed the consulting detective's presence; this man shared the precise nature, the sharp language, the tilted stare that looked like he was imagining taking a scalpel to your secrets. He could wrap anyone around his stout finger without them noticing, even eking out their permission if need be. The sweet countenance was a disguise; underneath, she saw the same familiar framework, that fearsome circuitry that both awed her and made her very uneasy. The man must have noticed her hesitance, because he shook the phone again, more violently this time to garner her attention.

“How do you know me, Mr. Holmes?” Alexis asked raspily, ignoring his vapid gestures.

The man's chin tilted, eyes boring into her head. His voice lowered. “It's my job to know you, Ms. Messek, and everything that's happened to you.”

A chill ran across Alexis' skin. “And how do you know what's _happened_ to me...?” Her voice was barely louder than a whisper, barely able to keep the sudden shivers from her voice.

“You told me, Ms. Messek. That night, in St. Bart's hospital, on your hospital bed. You have been awake for three days at that point, and you were just becoming lucid again. When you first arrived, they had to heavily medicate you in order to keep your calm; otherwise, you continued to ramble a loop of incomprehensible gibberish. They had just decreased your dosage, per my request...I wanted to see if you would talk. I didn't particularly care what you'd say, but I had a guess as to what your first instinct might be. I visited you, Ms. Messek, and you told me everything, your entire story.”

Alexis' body tensed in trying to process this information, her face falling. Why didn't she remember this strange man's face, if he had really been in that dim room while she shuddered and squirmed away from the IV's the doctors had tried to administer? She could recall only brief flashes of those first few days...the sounds of machines, the blurs of faces, the forced patient expressions, the resounding confusion and pity that stained their indistinguishable voices. Dreams had blended into reality then...through numb skin, she couldn't tell the difference. It was only once she had begun to feel the ache rack her body again that she had started to make sense of what had happened and where she was. But why did this man seek her, a person with no ties to their country, a stray survivor with scraps of sanity left? Why was he suddenly so interested? And why had they listened to any request of his, let alone leave this person in the room with her unsupervised? The back of her throat tasted of vomit at the thought of it. “Why would you believe the drugged ravings of a lunatic, Mr. Holmes?” she asked in a hiss.

His frown deepened. “I believe we both know that the medication had nothing to do with what you told me, Ms. Messek. That was a tale you were literally dying to share with someone...anyone. I merely helped you along.”

“And why were you so curious about my _tale_? How could you know who I was, or what I went through?”

“I have eyes everywhere, some in places that would absolutely burn your retinas. I've made a career in knowing more than other people, and so the very moment you fell on our doorstep, I knew. The circumstances were a little too shady for me to ignore, now, weren't they? I'm not a big believer in coincidences, and the events that led you washed on this country's soil reeked of something worrisome.”

Her lips parted tentatively, swallowing a dry gulp again. “You must think I'm crazy,” she half-laughed, hoping that he couldn't see her tremble, but bitterly aware that he probably hadn't missed a single twitch.

“If I believed you were crazy, Ms. Messek, you would still be in St. Bart's hospital, not lodging with my younger brother.” He waved the phone slowly, his slim eyebrow arching.

“I thought Inspector Lestrade sent me here.”

“Per my orders, yes. I thought it best to have you nearby, under the eye of someone capable, if bit unconventional.” The grin returned, stretching his face. “You may be Sherlock's charge, Ms. Messek, but you are my responsibility.”

“On what grounds?”

“On the grounds of the British government.”

“You're an agent, then?”

He snorted. “Dear God, no, you can only imagine the footwork. Let's just say I'm in human resources...I am in no short supply of resources.”

Alexis' muscles relaxed slightly, but her face still twisted in caution. “What does the British government want with me?”

The elder Holmes frowned. “After what happened on that ship, are you really so shocked that we'd take an interest?”

“I tried telling others,” she stuttered, stumbling over the slow swell of desperation in her chest. “They wouldn't listen. Why would you?”

“The doctors thought you were hallucinating. After the way you thrashed away from those needles, I wouldn't exactly blame them.” He sat back in the cushion, placing the saucer of tea onto the arm of the chair. “We, however, both know better, now don't we?”

“I'm not helpful anymore. I'm just a testimony, someone with a crazy story. Why can't you take that and let me go?”

“We both know it's not that simple,” he responded, his voice softer. He sighed, the motion slumping his shoulders slightly. “I sympathize with you, Ms. Messek, I truly do. You're angry, you're frightened, and most likely still in a great amount of physical and emotional pain. The night terrors are probably indicative of post-traumatic stress disorder, and they will very likely get worse. Most importantly, there are several loose ends of this situation that have yet to be resolved. I'm afraid that letting you return home, for both your safety and the safety of this country, is quite out of the question.” He recrossed his legs, his foot swiveling on his ankle. “Your part in these terrible events, however, is over; there are persons involved now that will be watching over you, entities far above your head. Your job now is to settle back into your life, just as long as we keep you within a convenient distance. We will simply be monitoring, to make sure there are no...anomalies.”

He had a great gift of saying much while revealing little, and the cryptic nature of his words were starting to irk her. Every line on his face showed just how abysmally concerned he was for her well-being. How dare he sit there with that smug smear of a smile and expect her to simply forget, as if she didn't have unresolved issues of her own? There was no comfort in that fake sweet countenance of his. On the surface his message was kind, but Alexis felt trapped; she didn't care to scuttle about for someone else's entertainment. She squirmed at the notion that she was a case study in progress, and still left completely and utterly in the dark. She was sickeningly tired of being in dark. Her voice hardened as she gritted her teeth. “With all due respect, Mr. Holmes, please spare me the fake pity. I don't need it.”

The man paused for a brief moment before his eyes closed, blowing an amused exhale through his nose. “Perhaps not, but I do have some other things that you need.” He stood, straightening his suit jacket. His very posture made him look alien within the homely confines of the flat surrounding him—he looked ridiculously out of place. “One of which _is_ this phone, whether you'd like to admit it or not. The rest I've had placed on the kitchen table—only the essentials for now, although they'll be supplemented later.” He strode forward and gently placed the phone of the arm of the couch, her eyes tracing his every move. His eyes never broke contact, casually focused on her wary face. “I'll be stopping in from time to time, to assure there are no unnecessary complications.”

Alexis held his gaze for a moment more, the calm expression on his face tinted only by the slightest of smiles. He then turned away with nonchalant haste, and Alexis's eyes narrowed at the profile of his face. “There's something you're not telling me,” she managed to stutter.

He smirked, and in a fluid motion he swept a dark cane from the side of the arm chair, gripping it in his right hand. “I tend to be a very private man, as you will well come to know. Rest assured that you have become a more valuable...resource.” He slowly stepped away, jovially slipping his cane as he strutted to the door. “Good day, Ms. Messek.”

She was watched his silhouette fade out of the doorway, daring not to move in case the motion attracted him to slither back with that serpentine stare of his. It was only once she heard the front door slam behind him that she jolted to her feet, glaring at the phone on the couch before seizing it in her hand, pressing the power button firmly with her thumb. She hesitantly admitted to herself that it was actually quite a nice model; the software was a bit unfamiliar to her, but a few swipes across the touch screen yielded enough hints to its framework. The screen lit emptily, and she quickly maneuvered to the contacts tab. Two names blinked up at her: one entitled “ _for emergencies_ ” and the other simply labeled “ _SH_ ”. Her fingers tightened around the device; was this another one of “eyes” that he claimed to have everywhere? Was he staring back at her right now, through the shine of the screen?

A ginger knock sounded from the door, jolting her to shove the power button and turn the screen to black. Mrs. Hudson's curious face appeared into the doorway, eyes scanning the flat slowly. “Is everything all right, dear?” She frowned, stepping inside. “I heard a commotion coming in this morning...”

“Yeah, everything is fine.” Alexis tucked the phone into her palm and lowered it to her thigh. “Just a visitor stopping by to say hello, with some housewarming gifts.”

“I saw Mycroft leaving on his way out.” Mrs. Hudson's soft voice cradled his name fondly. “Was he stopping by to visit Sherlock?”

“Mycroft?”

“Sherlock's brother. Those two always have their little spats, but even if he doesn't admit it, Mycroft is always looking out for Sherlock; they're family, after all.”

Her voice naturally painted a sweeter picture than Alexis could imagine between those two—the tension had to be choking when they were in the same room with one another. “I'm sure he is,” she responded, purposefully choosing the more general answer she could muster.

“Has he checked the morgue?”

The mortified look on Alexis' face must have adequately portrayed her confusion, because Mrs.Hudson immediately laughed. “No, no, no, not like that. The boys made a trip there this morning—something about a case, I'm sure.”

Well, then. Alexis bit the corner of her lip, shifting her eyes thoughtfully to the kitchen entrance. “He didn't say,” she replied lightly, prompting a small shrug from Mrs. Hudson. Alexis flattened her fingertips against the phone in her grip, legs finally strengthening properly beneath her. “You know, Mrs. Hudson, it feels like a promising day...I think I'll go for a walk.”

* * * *

“Let me guess—Slipknot?”

Sherlock scowled as he removed the headphones from his ears, glancing up to his flatmate, who had leaned onto his chair. “A side project,” he quipped lightly, placing the headphones on the desk in front of him. “Don't you have a blog to write?”

“About what, the color of the walls in here? There's no case to blog about.”

“I told you, there's a mixture heating right now. It needs to stir for ten minutes.”

“You literally want me to blog about boiling sugar water.”

“It's my control, John. I need it to compare to boiling plasma matter.”

“You still haven't explained _why_ you're doing that.”

“Because I don't know what happens,” Sherlock snapped back impatiently.

“When are you _ever_ going to need to know that?”

“You never know what sort of data you will need until the demand for it arises, John, and I for one would like to be prepared.” Sherlock pressed on the edge of the desk to propel himself across the short expanse of floor, the wheels of his squeaking as he swiveled around to face the lab counter where a microscope perched near the edge. John rolled his eyes, folding his arms as he leaned against the desk next to the computer.

“One more question, Sherlock.”

“Mm?”

“Why am I here again?”

“It's medically-related. I thought you might be interested.”

“Why do I find that incredibly hard to believe?”

“This can't be any more mind-numbing than what you do at that insipid clinic.”

“Is that what this is all about? You _still_ don't like that I'm working?”

“What you do in your free time is your business. I just find it interesting that you willingly abandoned your pressing duties attending to the sniffles of your poor patients to come witness components of blood boil.”

“You told me this was for an important case!”

“And one day, for all we know, it may very well be. You'll reflect on this moment while writing about that case in your blog at some point in the future, and you'll laugh.”

John's lip curled in a response, but was silenced as the door to the lab clicked open. Both men turned to see Lestrade stride into the room, gripping an already-stained cup of coffee. His mouth was pulled into a strain of a smile, reminiscent of a gesture forced for human interaction out in public. “You'll never believe who I found wandering wide-eyed in the streets,” he announced gruffly, shoving the door to allow Alexis to carefully follow, hesitantly clutching a coffee cup of her own. Her hair was tucked behind her ears, blonde tresses finally combed into submission and gleaming in the soft light from the delayed care. The oversized sweater had been exchanged for a form-fitting black shirt, the flaps of a white blazer draping from beneath a heavy black jacket unzipped across her stomach. Dark jeans clutched her legs, the material bound by a belt to her hips.

Sherlock turned back to his microscope, eyes focusing through the lenses. “Must've forgotten to lock the door, can't imagine how she slipped out,” he murmured lowly, the sarcasm not lost on Lestrade's ears.

“Found her on my coffee break. Figured she could use one too, by the looks of her. She'd been out there for hours.”

“On purpose,” Alexis interjected, brow furrowing in Lestrade's direction. She wasn't keen on this tendency to paint her as a helpless puppy. “It's a new city, I was exploring.”

“It's a new city, you shouldn't be out there on your own. You have no idea what kind of people are out there.”

“They can't be much worse than who I woke up to in the flat this morning.”

John narrowed his eyes, spine straightening. “Wait a minute, what do you mean by that? Who was in the flat this morning?”

Alexis's eyes lowered to Sherlock, who was still staring into his scope. “Your brother made a house visit this morning.”

“Obviously, I can still smell his ridiculous cologne on those clothes that he gave you.”

She shifted uncomfortably at the mention of them; the designer fabrics felt strange on her skin. “He left a phone as well,” she added, settling her shoulders.

Sherlock extended his arm and held out his hands without looking away from the eyepieces. “Give it here.”

Alexis paused before sliding her hand into her jacket pocket, retrieving the sleek device and stepping forward to place it in Sherlock's broad palm. His eyes turned from the microscope to glance at it, swiveling it in his grip with his fingers to inspect it. “It's being monitored,” he noted.

“Of course it is,” Alexis responded in a hard impatient voice, as if Sherlock have just tried to reveal the color of her hair. “Have you met your brother?” A few quiet moments passed before her unimpressed expression fell in a wave of embarrassment, releasing with a sigh. “Sorry, I'm not trying to be snarky. It's been a rough start so far...”

“I'd be slightly cranky too, if his ugly mug was the first thing I saw in the morning.” He placed the phone delicately on the counter. “I get a little irritated just being related to him.”

Was that a smirk on the corner of his lips? “Is it safe to use?” she asked hesitantly.

“I would certainly hope so, it behooves Mycroft greatly to keep you alive and well.” He glared to her stomach briefly. “You didn't eat breakfast this morning.”

Alexis's eyes narrowed. “Don't change the subject—!”

“We talked about this.”

“You're being ridiculous.”

“And you're being irrationally stubborn, there's no reason to be so hard-headed.”

“This isn't the time or the place—!”

“Excuses.”

“Don't you think that's a tiny bit hypocritical...?”

“ _I'm_ not the one who is severely underweight. If you're going to run rampant throughout London, the least you can do is feed yourself enough so that you won't pass out and get hit by traffic.”

Alexis stared inquisitively for a few moments, prompting Sherlock to turn and face her skeptically. “What?” he demanded impatiently.

“What?”

“What's that look for?”

“I'm just trying to pinpoint the moment when you became mother hen, is all.”

“There's nothing maternal about this, it's basic biology. If you don't believe me, then ask the professionals,” Sherlock snapped, gesturing brusquely towards John, who was monitoring the exchange with quick eyes.

“Sherlock, don't pressure her.”

Sherlock turned to him, eyes widened fractionally in frustration. “You're the doctor, tell her she's being incredibly thick about this!”

“Of course she is, but harping on her won't fix anything.”

The detective's eyes were aghast. “After all the times you've practically shoveled food in front of me-!”

“That's different, don't exaggerate.”

“In what possible way is that any different?”

“Sherlock,” John replied sternly, the name warm and final in his voice. The doctor's face had set in a firm expression, one which had hardened against any attempts to assuage it. His cerulean eyes gleamed warningly. “Enough.”

Sherlock was more than familiar with that face, and he turned his body sharply back to the microscope, defeated. “At least sit down,” he ordered Alexis abruptly, pointing to the open chair behind him, “before you faint from exhaustion and break something.”

Alexis rolled her eyes, but she complied reluctantly, settling in the chair as the glow from the computer bathed her face softly. She crossed her legs, carefully placing her half-drained coffee as far from the keyboard as possible. Lestrade cleared his throat, gripping his own coffee enough to form creases in the foam surface of the cup. “Have you gotten anywhere with the Brayan case yet?” he asked shortly.

“Brayan case?” John turned curiously to Sherlock with folded arms. “What Brayan case?”

“Woman found asphyxiated with a _V_ cut into her chest, no signs of a motive or her killer.” Sherlock adjusted the lenses of his microscope. “I'm still mulling it over.”

“Well, both Sarah Brayan and I would appreciate it if you mulled a little faster,” Lestrade quipped.

“Ms. Brayan is currently lying on a cold slab next door, I think she can wait a tiny bit longer.” Seemingly satisfied with what he had seen, Sherlock slid back from the counter and stood, raising his gaze from the eyepieces. “For now, I'm currently expanding my database concerning the reactions of bodily fluids under the extreme conditions of physics, and my sample preparations are almost complete. I appreciate the updates, Inspector, and I will be sure to inform you upon the news of any...” He turned and froze, his sentence trailing off hesitantly.

Alexis had raised an earpiece of the headphones to the side of her head, the audio file on the computer still jolting on the screen. Her fingers had tightened on the plastic, her features contorting from curiosity to shock as she realized the contents of the file. She glanced up to Sherlock, who remained perfectly still as her pallid face fell. “You're listening to me,” she said finally, voice quiet with an air of disbelief.

Sherlock jerked back into motion, stepping forward and gingerly taking the headphones from her hand while pausing the file on the computer hastily. Her eyes followed his movements, but he wouldn't return her stare as he quickly attempted to hide the program. He didn't seem guilty as much as he seemed flustered, unprepared for this sort of explanation. Her gaze hardened angrily. “That was me,” she reiterated, more demanding.

“Didn't anyone teach you not to touch anything in a laboratory without permission?” Sherlock snapped, his tone still slightly more gentle than his words.

“That's me in the hospital, and you're listening to it like it's an EP. I wanna know why.”

“I'm really going to have to ask you to calm down, this overreaction is embarrassing for everyone.”

“I am perfectly calm.” Alexis clenched her teeth, a sick sour taste percolating in her esophagus. Her eyes bored into the Sherlock's temple, but he refused to meet her gaze with his own, instead busying his hands by placing the headphones out of her reach. Over his shoulder, John's sharp stare also pierced the detective's cheekbones, his jawline clenching somberly.

“Sherlock, answer her.”

“It's not important.”

“Sherlock.”

“I told you, it's a side project, a mere curiosity, something to occupy my brain. I'm not obligated to explain every single little thing that crosses my mind to all of you.”

“Then do me a favor and explain the one that has to do with the person in this room.”

Sherlock turned a weary scowl to Lestrade, who looked away and stared with unwarranted intensity at the spotted top of his coffee cup. “You gave me the file, Lestrade, surely you of all people aren't worried about it.”

Alexis felt an anxious squeeze in her chest. “Were you the one who recorded that...?” she asked quietly, fighting to keep her voice from rising.

“No,” Lestrade barked defensively, eyes lifting immediately, “no, no no, that wasn't me. That was strictly the doctors' idea, they wanted to monitor you those first couple of days. I had nothing to do with it.”

“But you got the recordings from them later.” She glanced up to Sherlock, who was still standing less than three feet away from her and completely refusing to move his face. “What, couldn't get a video?”

Sherlock's eyes lowered slightly. “Actually, I extrapolated the audio from the video file.”

“Oh, perfect.” Alexis placed her hand on her knee and clenched her fingers into tight fists. The last thing she wanted to do was lose her temper over such a relatively small thing, but God, did she hate being dissected like this.

“Does anyone want to explain exactly what's on that file that's so questionable?” John demanded, his voice strained in his even tone.

“It doesn't matter, John,” Sherlock retorted shortly.

“The hell it doesn't matter, Sherlock, look at her face. Besides, I'm the last person in this room to not know, you might as well stop trying to keep it so secret.”

Sherlock breathed in through his nose, nostrils flaring as he closed his eyes in contemplation. After a few moments, he released a calculated exhale as he placed one hand on the waistband of his pants, the other hand pinching the bridge of his nose gently before slumping to his side. “When our inspector first found Alexis, they reported that she continually spoke in a random, incoherent and unintelligible manner, a habit that they attributed to her mental and physical trauma. Upon her admittance to St.Bart's, the professional staff noticed that when she was conscious this supposed raving seemed to follow a pattern, with the same familiar sounds looping in approximately 4-5 minute intervals. They couldn't determine any meaning from it, and once she started to recover, she didn't seem to remember anything about it. I'm of the opinion that the habit was deliberate, and in my free time I've simply been trying to decode what it was she might have been saying.”

The silence in the room was deafening. Alexis's chair creaked under her hips as she rested an elbow on the desk, pressing her hand to her mouth as she attempted to steady her nerves. Sherlock noticed the gesture and narrowed his eyes. “Oh, for God's sake, there's no need to be melodramatic about the whole thing—”

“I'm a case, aren't I?” she managed to ask, interrupting his groan. Sherlock paused, frown deepening as he ignored Lestrade's clearly uneasy stare.

“Well, you're kind of a case and a client rolled into one, but that's actually not that uncommon... so yes.”

Alexis focused on the rhythm of her blinking, every movement deliberate and timed in an attempt to keep her tone even. “That's why I was sent to you...because someone wants to solve me, is that it? Someone wants answers from me, right?”

“In a manner of speaking, although it sounds awfully pessimistic the way you phrase it.”

“Then why...does nobody...goddamn _ASK_?” The last word escaped her lungs, her frustration cumulating in the single snarl of a syllable. She struggled to keep her eyes closed, to keep control. These people didn't warrant her anger, they weren't the cause of it, but the weeks of numb stares had built up for too long in her head, soaking into her tissues until enough pressure tweaked the tender nerves.

John unfolded his arms, stepping forward. “Alexis, calm—”

“Please, for God's sakes, don't tell me to calm down,” Alexis snapped. She opened her eyes, but refused to lift them from the floor. “I'm not broken. I know who I am and I know what's happened to me. I'm not someone you should pity, and I'm not hiding anything—hell, if anything, I've been dying to tell someone, _anyone_ what's going on. If you're looking for something mysterious in me, Mr. Holmes, you're going to be sorely disappointed, because I am the most mind-numbing and simple creature you have ever met, so stop trying to make everything about me clever, because if I'm really a case you're seriously trying to solve, you're doing a piss poor job at it!”

She listened to the sound of her breathing for a few seconds, the words she couldn't stop now ringing in the air of the laboratory. She didn't dare lift her gaze; she didn't want to see the nervous sympathy on Lestrade's face, the strained patience in John's expression, or the disappointed condescension in those steely eyes of Sherlock's. Immediately she regretted every syllable she had uttered; God, how ungrateful she had to look. These people had clothed her, fed her, been nothing but gracious to her, and instead of being thankful, this was what she did? Of course it made sense that Sherlock would investigate things about her on his own, did she really expect much else? Even so, out of all the things everyone had asked of her, her tongue was burning with the answer the question everyone was afraid to ask.

She had to fix this. There was no way she could leave this sort of outburst in the air unaddressed. She opened her mouth, lips already heavy with an apology before Sherlock interrupted lowly.

“Shut up.”

She lifted her eyes, brow furrowing. Her lips parted to try again, but Sherlock persisted. “Shut up,” he ordered again, interjecting with every protesting inhale Alexis tried to give as his stare met hers.“Shut up, shut up, shut _up_ , shut up.” He lowered his body to one knee a few mere inches from her face and clamped a large hand around her mouth. His voice was louder now, but as her stare followed him indignantly, she didn't see any sign of anger in his face. She watched him with wide incredulous eyes, confused as he raised an index finger into her face. “I know what you're doing, and I've already told you how I feel about pointless apologies, so just shut your mouth.”

Her glare must have conveyed the response her lips were unable to give, because Sherlock continued. “Yes, it is pointless, because you didn't say anything that wasn't true, and quite honestly, it's about time you got—how did you word it earlier?—ah, yes, _snarky_. Everyone could tell you were thinking it, and we're not used the quiet-mouse complex around here, so this works out nicely.”

Alexis glanced at him skeptically, the pressure of his hand warm against her lips. Was that a gleam of amusement in his eyes? God, that made her want to hug him and punch him all at once.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade warned from behind him, voice wavering in his hesitance.

“Hold on, Inspector.” Sherlock turned back to Alexis. “Now I'm going to move my hand, and once I do, you're going to tell us all exactly what happened on the _Sayanara_ , properly. And if I hear one single apology, even just one tiny little hint of one, I will put my hand back no matter how much you threaten to bite it, understand?”

Alexis nodded, his hand moving with her face. The bottom of her lungs fluttered in the anticipation, and she hoped desperately he couldn't feel her lips tremble. If she could choke down the reminiscent flares of panic, if she could manage to not let the images paralyze her tongue, if she could just stutter out one single narrative to this man...he might actually believe it. Out of all the people with all the reluctantly patient faces, he might actually believe it. Not only that, but she'd no longer have to be the only one who had those events in her brain, and she wouldn't have to feel like she was the only one who cared, who gave a damn about what had happened. That alone scared her, but God, was she desperately tired of being the only one.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade repeated again, this time more firmly.

Sherlock removed his hand from Alexis' face, lowering the fingers to his side once again. “One moment, Inspector, I have a client to attend to.”

“I know what she's going to say.”

Sherlock paused, muscles stiffening. Immediately his eyes sharpened, his stare still in Alexis' direction but no longer aimed towards her. He tilted his chin, lips parting briefly. “If you know, Inspector, then why did you need me, again?”

Alexis looked to Lestrade, who was focusing on Sherlock's back, face contorted in deep frown twisted with a tinge of shame. Now the inspector was the one who refused to meet the girl's eyes. “I know what she's going to say...and I don't think it's exactly what happened.”

Alexis felt a cold weight press her stomach, painfully constricting her inhale. “You think I'm lying...?” she asked softly.

Again, Lestrade responded in a flustered panic, his movements jumpy and ungraceful as his hands struggled to find a proper place. “No, no, of course not, not at all!”

“Then why don't you believe me?” Alexis clenched her fists until her fingers were numb.

Sherlock stood, his calm gaze focused on the uneasy inspector. “What exactly do you believe she is preempted to say, Lestrade?” he asked lowly.

Lestrade gripped his cup with more force, the creases deepening in the foam. “When she was still in recovery, we managed to piece together her account. At first we thought maybe the medication was affecting her recollection, but the story remained consistent....she's under the impression that the _Sayanara_ was hijacked by a squadron that then used the crew for medical experiments.”

The lining of Alexis' intestines seared with the embarrassment of that simplification. So few words, for so many burning memories. She felt sweat coat her palms as the other men in the room turned their attention to the nervous inspector squirming under their stares. “What type of medical experiments...?” John asked hesitantly.

“From what we could gather, she claimed they were testing some sort of genetically-modified pathogen that they needed to find an antidote for, and were using human subjects to find naturally-occurring antibodies in the genetic make-up to make a vaccine. According to her, the _Sayanara_ was immobilized, cut off in all communications, and then the crew were all restrained and injected with the pathogen. She was the only one who survived the side effects.”

_But it's true_ , Alexis thought earnestly, the words dying on her cracked lips. Her ribs felt stiff; why was it when Lestrade said it, it felt so hopeless, so fictional? Such little words pricked her in the throat; _impression. Claimed. According to her._..

“That sounds...gruesome.”

“It also sounds like the back cover of a science fiction book, which is why I recruited you two.”

No, no, no, no, no. This wasn't right. Alexis knew that her eyes exposed every ounce of her fear, but she couldn't tear them down from the Inspector's gray unbelieving gaze. She couldn't see either John or Sherlock's facial expression, and she was terrifyingly grateful for that; she couldn't bear to see them reflect the same skeptical shadows in their features. Lestrade's eyes caught hers, and immediately his face softened at the sight. “Not like that,” he assured her as gently as he could, “I didn't mean it like that.”

“You knew all this time,” Alexis managed to croak, hands curled at her knees. “You knew, and you didn't believe me.”

Lestrade placed his coffee on the counter, rubbing his mouth with his hand as he prepared to speak something he had carefully contemplated, a speech he had probably delicately crafted far in advance but still never quite prepared himself to give. He stepped forward slowly, feet trailing as approached. “Alexis,” he urged gently, “I have absolutely no doubt that whatever happened out there was incredibly traumatic, and I will do anything and everything in my power to help you. I simply want to understand what happened.”

“You don't believe I'm telling the truth.”

“I don't believe you know what the truth is right now...the brain deals with these things in extreme and confusing ways. I think your mind is struggling to come to terms with what happened, and so it's invented this story as a way of coping. You have to admit, it sounds downright maniacal—it's a good story, but it's just too extreme, too theatrical. There are many other things that could've happened out there—a chemical leak, maybe, or a rough storm that sank the ship. I don't know what it was, but somewhere in your head, _you_ do.” He held out a hand, as if to pacify her. “I didn't ask for Sherlock's help because I thought you were lying—anything but that. I asked for Sherlock's help because if there's anyone who can help you through these tricks your mind is playing on you and get to the truth, it's him.”

Alexis's form suddenly went still, gaze sinking to the tiled floor. Her lips pressed tight together, fingers still clenched at the bottom of her thighs. She saw Sherlock's body turn out of the corner of her eyes, and felt his stare fall onto her scalp. She knew, from the temperature of that stare, that she couldn't lift her eyes to meet it. “What say you?” she asked quietly, even though she could already guess the answer.

A quiet moment passed, which made the wrenching in her chest even worse. She heard John clear his throat and shift his body against the counter. “It's not unheard of, to have the mind come up with something a bit more...colorful, to hide the actual damage done. I've had that happen myself with my limp when I came back from deployment—it was psychosomatic, just my brain trying to attest for what had happened. Wasn't anyone's fault, really, just something to overcome. It sounds like....that could very well be the case here.”

Breath in. Breath out. She couldn't feel the oxygen hit her head, but she heard the rhythm and focused on it; it had to distract her, had to block out everything else and keep herself composed. She didn't speak, didn't nod, didn't react. She couldn't. Her ears strained to ear any indication of Sherlock's response, but were left empty. All she felt was that algid, precise stare analyzing the hairs on her head, unrelenting. “Then again,” John continued, attempting to allay the weight in the air, “it also wouldn't be the first crazy story we've ever encountered...”

“Don't bring her hopes up, John, that only makes it worse.” Lestrade sighed. “I had really hoped it wouldn't have to be explained like this, I had rather wished it would just...happen. The last thing I wanted to do was to make you feel alienated.” He folded his arms. “I mean it when I say that everyone in this room is here to help you.”

_Liar_ , Alexis hissed quietly in her thoughts, although the word made her feel more hollow than angry. Of course they wouldn't be striving to help her, she was a puzzle to solve to them. The only one who knew the truth was the bird-faced elder Holmes, and even then, Alexis was starting to wonder if that had been an act. She had fallen for it, too; as intimidated as she had been, a small part of her had been secretly overjoyed that at least someone, anyone, believed her. It was a trick, another stupid trick, another smiling, lying, grotesque face. It infuriated her that she had believed it for even an instant. She unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth, and snagged a scrap of paper from beside the keyboard. “What are you doing?” Lestrade demanded, his voice spiking.

Alexis didn't answer, swiping a pen and scribbling thirteen letters into the short expanse of space. “Helping you with your project,” she growled lowly, slamming the pen and standing to her feet once she had finished. She pulled the jacket tighter around her shoulders and ducked past Sherlock with stiff strides. John grabbed Lestrade's arm and pulled him to the side, allowing her passage through.

“And where do you think you're going now?”

“For air,” she retorted over her shoulder, barely turning her body. John kept the inspector anchored to the counter, eliciting a sharp glare as the door swung closed behind her.

“Nothing you can possibly say to her is going to make this any better right now,” John warned sternly. “Let her go...she needs time to process things.”

“Those _things_ went to hell rather quickly,” Lestrade spat, pulling away from John's grip but remaining reluctantly close to the wall. He turned his searing gaze to Sherlock, who had extended a hand to straighten the note Alexis had left. The detective's eyes darted over the paper, lips pressed together in contemplation. “You just had to leave that stupid file out for her to hear,” the inspector growled angrily. “God forbid you do that on your own time!”

“This was 'my own time' until you barged in here,” Sherlock replied lazily, lifting the paper slightly off the counter for closer examination. “It's a pity, I was going to show her the experiments I'm conducting, she would've liked that.”

“ _That's_ what you're worried about? Sherlock, we're back to square one with her!”

“Hardly. She's still perfectly lucid, she can express a complete idea, and she's even letting herself get angry. I'd call those improvements.”

“She isn't going to trust anyone after that!”

“Good,” Sherlock snapped, meeting Lestrade's eyes for a brief moment. “Then she's clearly smarter than she gives herself credit for.”

“Doesn't that make your job just a tiny bit harder?”

“Let me worry about that,” Sherlock purred, folding the paper in half. John arched an eyebrow, curiosity sparking in his concerned facial expression.

“What did she write?”

Sherlock used his fingers to deftly spread the paper open and held it out to his inquisitive flatmate. John's brow furrowed as he read the scrawl of “ _ **TAMRAJBDMCEAK**_ ” in dark ink. “It's gibberish,” he remarked incredulously.

“Very specific gibberish,” Sherlock corrected, tucking the paper into his blazer pocket before glancing up with clockwork eyes. “Kind of her to give us a clue, isn't it?”

                                                                                         * * * *

The night chill hurt his skin—he liked it that way. There was no room for any dull nerve within his body tonight, not when something so crucial was at stake. Precision was the key, precision disguised as chaotic brutality. The lazy minds would only see barbarism; the scent of blood blunted their desire to see anything more. This wasn't a night for them—that would come later. This was a night for art.

He needed a canvas. The brick wall seared coldly against his back through the thin material of his sweatshirt. Other than the occasional flash of light from a passing train, the corner he had selected for his perch remained pitch dark. He refused to check his watch—impatience would cloud his judgement. It could be midnight or four in the morning—it didn't make a difference. They would come, he knew it. Moths always fluttered to his match, when he presented it in just the right moment.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel, and he held his breath soundlessly. A slender silhouette holding a pathetic glow of a flashlight had approached, its movements straining to part the dark in vain. He could see just a faint gleam of its eyes, blind and earnest. The figure stepped with languid, uncertain motions; its legs dragged in the gravel, neck craning to see something in the black. Oh, what an innocent little insect; the flashlight creaked under the figure's tight grip, pallid clouds of breath illuminated weakly in the dying arc of yellow light. Amazing, what a simple little note could do—it had dragged this creature out into the dark in the frostbitten early hours of the morning. The last one had been more reluctant. His teeth bared into a smile that frosted in the algid air. A moth had just flown his way.

A few more steps, that's all he needed. He had waited this long already, a few more agonizing seconds were the last of his burden. It still couldn't see him, and that alone gave him a rush of excitement; the moment of their collision was of his choosing. Every muscle tensed with fiery adrenaline that he swore might permeate enough heat to alert his guest of his presence; his eyes seemed to shake in their sockets as he tracked every twitch of the figure unknowingly creeping towards him. One step, pause; another step, tremble, pause. He inhaled shallowly, tongue numb from the bitter breath; the figure stumbled closer, until he could see the line of muscle pulsating in its throat. He crouched slightly, until the creak in his joints provoked the figure's head to whip in his direction. Its pupils were clear now, and stained with the poor light beneath its jaw. The time had come, the climax of this masterpiece. With a blur of limbs he finally struck, and with a last choked shout, the flashlight faded to black. 


	5. An Uneasy Arrangement

As much as Alexis enjoyed traveling lightly, she really needed to figure out the money system here so she didn't feel so hopelessly stranded. She never thought she'd ever long for a map as much as she did now; even that might give her a vantage point for things. Tracing her steps was easy enough, so she could maneuver around just fine, but she couldn't name anything around her; any attempts to assimilate information from the conversations around her failed miserably. She mentally catalogued directions and names of locations that might as well been a foreign language to her. Already there was a entire myriad of street names that she simply couldn't connect into a coherent framework in her head. As of now, she sat on a park bench within scattered trees that secluded from the streets. A pedestrian trail spliced the area into patches of grass that remained glossy in the early dew. Alexis attempted to observe the occasional passerby that sauntered past her, still trying to decipher the faces that seemed more at home here. She couldn't remember how long she'd been there—was it fifteen minutes or had it been a couple hours now? It was peaceful, at least, and the morning air felt good in her lungs.

  
“You know, for someone who wanted to explore a major city, you don't stray very far.”

  
Alexis glanced up, startled to see Sherlock's tall figure standing beside her. His blue scarf was tied tightly at his throat, one gloved hand anchored in his long coat pocket and the other clutching a white coffee cup. His eyes settled on her with a lazy sense of amusement, cheeks pale from the chill in the air. “Afraid of getting lost like you did yesterday?”

  
“I wasn't lost.”

  
“Totally, and utterly.”

  
“I would've been fine.”

  
“That, I believe.” The small grin on Sherlock's face flickered for a moment. “You returned late last night.”

  
“I was out on a walk.”

  
“For nine hours?”

  
“I felt like taking an evening stroll. I was back in the flat by eleven.”

  
“Conveniently timed, in order to minimize potential contact with anyone.” The irritation must have shown in her face, because Sherlock immediately cleared his throat and rushed past his last remark. “You went to a pub last night, did you enjoy yourself?”

  
Alexis's eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

  
“One of John's friends noticed you, a Mr. Mike Stamford. He was commenting on it this morning.”

  
“Well, I didn't drink, if that's what you're assuming. Not a beer person.”

  
“I wasn't assuming anything of the sort. You couldn't pay for any yourself, and you're smart enough not to accept drinks from strangers.” His chin lifted slightly. “A trip for the atmosphere, then?”

  
“Seemed like a good place to people-watch.” Alexis shrugged.

  
“I heard you narrowly missed getting pulled into a slight disagreement between two gentlemen.”

  
“Yeah, they disagreed on who should wear the pint glass as shards in their skull. People are strange.”

  
The side of Sherlock's mouth pulled into a brief smirk before his eyes fell, extending his arm to silently hold out the coffee to her. Alexis glanced from the cup to his face, brow furrowing skeptically. “What's this...?”

  
“The barista called it a latte.”

  
Alexis hesitated, hands still anchored to her lap. “That's....nice...”

  
“It's a peace offering.”

  
“Since when do you offer peace?”

  
Sherlock scowled pitifully, which elicited a defeated sigh from Alexis. She reluctantly took the cup into her cold hands, cradling it in her palms as Sherlock took a seat beside her on the bench. “I figure it's a functional compromise,” Sherlock commented. “You seem to stomach coffee just fine, and the milk provides at least some caloric value, so you at least have some form of substantial nourishment.”

  
“Well, you’re the genius,” Alexis replied lightly, sipping gingerly on the steam. She glanced over to Sherlock. “Remind me what you’re offering peace for again?”

  
Sherlock scrunched his nose skeptically before parting his lips in a pause, the tip of his tongue tracing the roof of his mouth. “I’m not exactly well-read in human emotions, but it seemed to me like you were angry.”

  
“You can’t expect me to believe you’re not familiar with that reaction. No offense, but you aren’t exactly everyone’s cup of tea.”

  
“Irritation, yes, I’m familiar with that; my peer have a tendency to express that when they can’t understand my methods. I can handle that in my associates just fine. Anger is different, it’s much more…fragile.”

  
“You’re assuming I’m mad at you in the first place.”

  
“Is that really such a far-fetched assumption, given what happened yesterday?”

  
“You’re misunderstanding.”

  
“Now that’s a strong accusation.”

  
“I was angry, yes, but not with you all.” She wrapped her mouth around the opening of the cup, sipping the liquid carefully. The creamy taste soothed her tongue, although she couldn’t drink too much at once lest she scald herself. Her eyelashes lowered contemplatively. “I wasn’t expecting much else to come of it, to be quite honest,” she added quietly. “Hoping maybe, but not expecting.”

  
Sherlock frowned, angling his face to see her properly. Her pale profile seemed tired; better than the guarded mask that she used to wear like armor, but still fallen. The color in her eyes had faded again. A few long moments of silence passed before he looked to the ground and cleared his throat clumsily. “You’re at least in good company,” he said finally, his voice gentle. “You currently share a flat with a soldier who’s still chasing the war around every corner and a sociopathic junkie who solves crimes for fun. Even the landlady has a past that would raise your eyebrow into your hairline. Seems only fitting that you partake in our little dysfunctional domesticity.”

  
Alexis tilted her chin in his direction, glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes. “I can’t decide if you’re calling me crazy, or if you’re trying to comfort me.”

  
“Crazy is such an ugly term, too many stupid people misuse it.” He returned the stare. “Besides, what’s the difference?”

  
“Both make me a little uneasy.”

  
“I thought the expression of empathy was the socially-acceptable mode of action, given the situation.”

  
“Since when do you give a damn about what’s socially acceptable?”

  
“Perhaps John is becoming a bad influence on me.” He leaned into the back of the bench. “These subjects are exceedingly difficult to wrap my head around.”

  
“You’re making it more complicated than it has to be.” Alexis gave a small, tentative smile. “I much prefer you as a prat.”

  
“You think I’m a prat?”

  
“You can be, when you’re not forcing yourself to be nice.”

  
“I don’t force myself to be nice, I merely conduct myself in a manner that minimizes the insufferable whining that results from my disapproval of pointless social dogma.”

  
“See? Right there, that’s more like you.”

  
He blinked, pausing for a moment. “People aren’t usually receptive to that kind of rationality—I’m usually advised to stay quiet on the subject.”

  
“Self-restraint isn’t exactly your forte.”

  
“Excuse you, I am a paragon of self control.”

  
“Until you get bored.”

  
Sherlock’s lip twitched disapprovingly. “How do you know about that?”

  
“There’s a giant smiley face and bullet holes in the wall, did you think I wouldn’t ask?” She sipped on the latte to mask a growing smile at the innocent indignation on Sherlock’s face. “John told me all about it the other day. People love to tell stories about you.”

  
“You’re one to talk.”

  
Sherlock seemed to immediately regret the statement, which had come out much more cross than he had expected. His tongue fluttered hesitantly behind his teeth as both persons looked away from one another, trying to abate the awkward silence straightening his shoulders. After a few quiet moments, Sherlock inhaled and turned his body back to her.

  
“Shut up.”

  
The order made Sherlock pause, mouth still open with a now dead sentence. Alexis rose the coffee to her lips again and glanced over to the detective, whose usually composed face was now crinkled in slight confusion. “I know what you’re going to say, and I think it best to spare both of us the embarrassment.”

  
Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t let me finish—”

  
“Because you’re going to try to put some sort of I _’m_ and some sort of _sorry_ together, since you think you’re supposed to.”

  
“That’s awfully presumptuous, don’t you think?”

  
“Am I wrong?”

  
Sherlock’s mouth curled in distaste. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  
Alexis wrapped her hands around the cup in her lap, the heat soaking into her skin. “You’re not the only one who hates unnecessary apologies, Sherlock,” she assured, giving a genuine smirk that felt warm on her face. She had to admit she took a little bit of joy in repeating Sherlock’s line back to him, and seeing the familiar frustration echoed in his face. The parallel felt a little low, but it was at least honest—she didn’t need him to stumble through a mechanical and painful apology when she already knew he was trying to help, in his own way. “Question.”

  
His eyebrow arched. “Yes…?”

  
“Where are we right now?”

  
Sherlock’s chin dipped slightly. “London…?”

  
Alexis rolled her eyes. “No, I mean right right now. Y’know, here, the place with the grass and benches?”

  
“Russell Square Gardens.”

  
“Okay.” Alexis looked around again, affirming the name to the scenery around her while quietly committing the connection to memory. That was one location finally given meaning in her head—only hundreds more to go. She heard Sherlock give a small chuckle, prompting her to glare skeptically at him over her shoulder. “What?”

  
“You really don't know anything about this city, do you?”

  
“What was your first clue, mister consulting detective?” She frowned into her coffee. “I'll learn.”

  
“Do you at least know that Speedy's is about a two mile walk in that direction?” Sherlock lifted his gloved finger, his eyes remaining playfully fixated on her face. Her expression must have met his expectations, because his chin dipped, broad jaw widening his smug subtle smirk with a sense of incredulity. “The cafe next to our flat...?”

  
“I know what Speedy's is,” Alexis snapped, mouth scrunching defensively under her nose.

  
“And now you know where it is, as well.”

  
“I'm not totally oblivious, it is literally right next door.”

  
“Hence why you would miss it. Details so close often get overlooked by those not paying attention.” He waved his long hand dismissively. “There's no need to get so defensive, nobody ever pays attention. That's what ensures my continued employment.”

  
“You seriously think we're all idiots, don't you?”

  
“That's because you all seriously are. Don't fret, it's endearing on some people, that's why I keep them around.” He raised his jaw thoughtfully. “We may have to keep you on a leash for a bit, though, at least until you can sensibly navigate through the city.”

  
Ah, a joke. At least, she hoped it was a joke. His face was uncomfortably serious, lips perched in a contemplative position. God, please let him be attempting some sort of humor. “I'll be fine.”

  
“Can't have you wandering blindly, you'll return to Bart's in a body bag. Lestrade would be very stern with me after that, I can't even fathom the fussing.”

“There's no need to go out of your way.”

  
“Besides, you've proven competent enough, and now that's you're in the proper footwear, you shouldn't slow me down too much.”

  
Alexis's eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting I follow you around on your cases?”

  
“One, I wouldn't quite call it a suggestion of all things, and two, you'd be assisting me.”

  
“What about John?”

  
“I can have two assistants.”

  
“That sounds horrendously inefficient.”

  
“On the contrary, it's a perfectly suitable solution. John has someone to help him along, you get to see the city on the way, and I can continue to keep an eye on you.”

  
“Mr.Holmes—”

  
“Ahem.”

  
“Sherlock, even if I somehow end up being somewhat helpful, doesn't me being on a case cancel the whole 'keeping me out of danger' concept?”

  
“Well, the other option is that you stay in the flat all day, doing whatever sedentary people do. I'm sure there's plenty of perfectly domestic programs on the telly for you to revel in, or perhaps some books for you to read—most likely John's, none of mine are quite easy skimming material—or some household chores to busy yourself with. It would be fairly peaceful, and it's sure to appease our dear Inspector...”

  
The disgust practically burned through Alexis's face, blanching her skin. The concept of pacing that flat, trapped behind that door, already pinched her chest in a wave of dread. The heat had to be tickling Sherlock's cheekbones, as his lips twitched at the sight of her expression. “Isn't that what you wanted?” she managed to spit out, her very throat clenched at the thought of such a mind-numbing pseudo house arrest.

  
Sherlock's face pulled into his familiar hardened expression; the grin stretched tightly above his chin, and his jade-tinted eyes narrowed amusedly. “Let's just say that I will follow the spirit of the Inspector's orders, per his requests, but I'm privy to executing them with my own...flair.”

  
Her fingers plucked at the side of the now half-empty cup in her lap absentmindedly. “I'm not sure I follow,” she responded hesitantly.

  
“I've never really been keen on following the rules imposed onto me. I'll oblige enough to curb the complaints, most of the time, but I care to think more of them as guidelines than anything else. Lestrade wants to me to watch for your overall well-being, that much he made clear—he just never specified how. I'm sure he intended me to do the basics—food, a roof, the occasional sense of personal validation and human interaction. I, however, am much more interested in making sure your mental faculties are well stimulated. The physical basics do little good if your brain rots in your skull. The way I see it, a little risk of stepping outdoors is worth the imperative service I'm doing for you.”

  
Alexis drained the last of her coffee in a massive gulp, trying to formulate a response that wouldn't make her sound dimwitted. “Do you usually take such great lengths to make sure everyone exercises their brains?”

  
“Ugh. The very thought of taking on that responsibility is exhausting.” Sherlock folded his arms calmly. “No, this is something I only extend to very specific associates.”

  
“Should I feel honored?”

  
“Do you?”

  
“Not really.”

  
“Then there you are.” Sherlock twisted his neck, allowing the vertebrae to release the tension and crack under the stiff muscles. “I did the same with John, he was equally apprehensive. I suppose I don't blame him, our first few days as flatmates were certainly memorable.”

  
Alexis blinked cautiously, swirling the empty cup in her hand in thought. “This is the same thing you did with Dr. Watson?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“Then why extend me the same kindness?”

  
Sherlock barked a laugh. “Oh, it's kindness now?”

  
“You know what I mean.”

  
Sherlock glanced to her. “Why not?”

  
The words hung behind her teeth for a few moments. There were too many ways to answer that simple question—how about the fact that Dr. Watson was a medically-trained war veteran? That Dr. Watson had a vast and useful skill-set that could work to Sherlock's advantage? Or that Dr. Watson had steel nerves under pressure and could read other people so simply? Not to mention, Dr. Watson also meshed well with Sherlock, that he balanced out the mechanical crazed mind of his flatmate so seamlessly by at times abating and sometimes challenging Sherlock. Dr. Watson was a friend. She was at worst the brat of 221B, and at best, she was the flat pet. Neither seemed very flattering, or compelling, for that matter. “You don't seem like to type who readily recruits people.”

  
“I'm not, but that seems irrelevant by this point.”

  
“Then why me?”

  
Sherlock smiled gently. “Because you're like us.” He turned his face towards her, the corners of his mouth dropping slightly. “You seem offended.”

  
“Not offended, just confused.”

  
“Ah, pardon me, I get both so often that I get them mixed up. Do you really not see it?”

  
Alexis shook her head in a small motion, eyes still watching Sherlock's expression. He still seemed so at ease, his long frame surprisingly comfortable against the bench pressed into his back. He sighed, although it lacked the weight of impatience. “You're like us,” he continued, “in that you do best with a bit of risk. Day-to-day life is going to bore you into a coma—you need something interesting to pull you back in. There's nothing wrong with a bit of danger to jerk you awake every once in a while, and besides, you like the tension. It reminds you what it's like to feel something, even if it's fear. You don't need pity, you don't want to be swaddled in comfort, and you most certainly don't want the fake smiles everyone seems to love peddling out when they finally shut their mouths and stop saying insipid, idiotic things. The adrenaline—that's what you need, that's secretly what you want. That's the only medicine that's going to actually make you feel better.”

  
“You think I'm an adrenaline junkie?”

  
“Dear God, no, not even close. It's certainly new to you, that much is clear. But you're terrified of going numb again—your greatest fear is fading back into your own head.”

  
“How could you possibly know that?”

  
His eyes flashes briefly, and Alexis's tongue froze. The spark softened almost immediately, but his face darkened slightly, the angles of his face casting somber shadows. “You're not the only one who knows the dangers of being alone with your mind,” he replied slowly, voice low in his chest. He cleared his throat again, his tone rising. “At any rate, it's natural that you don't want to be bored when there's a city to explore. What do you say to my offer?”

  
“Is it an offer now?”

  
“It can be, depending on your answer.”

  
“Then I say yes.”

  
“Good, then I can give this.” Sherlock dug his fingers into his coat pocket and retrieved the phone she had left behind in the laboratory. “Try not to leave this around too much, Mycroft gets very ornery about these kinds of things.”

  
Alexis gingerly took the phone from him, the plastic slowly losing the body heat it had absorbed as she held it against her palm. “Is this safe to use?”

  
“Of course it's safe.”

  
“I mean, should I be using it if it's being tracked?”

  
“It's not like we're hiding anything, so it should be fine for now. If for some reason we need Mycroft off the back of your neck, we can arrange something. For now, we might as well play along.”

  
Alexis shrugged, tucking the phone into her jacket pocket. The weight pulled the fabric closer to her ribs. “I took the liberty of fleshing out your contacts,” Sherlock continued lightly, “as well as adding your number into our own phones. That way, next time you should find yourself 'exploring', you have some way of reaching John or I and hastening your return.”

  
“For the last time, I wasn't lost.”

  
“You were gone for nine hours, you were lost at some point.”

  
Alexis opened her mouth to retort, but Sherlock's body suddenly straightened, causing her to hesitate with the words hot in her mouth. With a quick motion, Sherlock extracted his own phone from his pocket and quickly checked the screen. She recognized that sharp look in his eyes—there was fresh blood in the water. “A case...?” she asked, almost afraid to break his concentration.

  
“A development.” He snapped to his feet, the movement graceful and tense with purpose as he turned on his heels. “Lestrade needs us, let's go.”

Alexis got to her own feet, significantly less graceful than her companion. She still clutched the coffee cup in her hand, the foam crumpling under her clumsy grip. “What kind of development?” she inquired, quickly opening her stride to follow Sherlock, who was already rushing down the pathway.

  
“Someone got greedy,” he clipped, tightening his scarf as he glanced over his shoulder. “Our killer just gave us another show.”

  
* * * *

  
Alexis hoped desperately that Sherlock was too mentally distracted by the intrigue of the case to notice her biting back her heavy panting behind clenched teeth. Her legs had weakened far more than she had originally expected—already her limbs were fatigued and burning trying to keep up with Sherlock's long strides. She managed to remain close to the tails of his coat, her eyes locked onto the dark curls on the back of his head to keep track of him. As her thighs seared, she reluctantly admitted to herself that maybe she did need to work on regaining some muscle mass, if only to build up her strength again. She would faint on the sidewalk in matter of hours at this rate.

  
The scenery around them gradually started to change; the bustling sidewalks and streets widened, the tides of people scattering and becoming more and more sparse. The barrage of shoving stubborn shoulders allayed, her path clearing to see Sherlock fully. Rows of manicured trees crept through the grid of pavement, the square surrounded by a long beige building. Sherlock steered through the clearing, his body pointed purposefully beyond the multitude of doorways. The two pedestrians were angled towards a large entrance directly ahead, a wide glass box of an entryway with giant yellow letters perched above the structure that read “RENOIR”. “Is this where we're headed?” Alexis asked, wincing immediately at both the obvious nature of the question and the betraying tired tremble in her voice.

  
Sherlock glanced briefly over his shoulder. “The Renoir theatre,” he declared, his own voice quick and controlled. “I could bore you with the history, but I think you'd be much more interested to know that our Inspector is waiting for us inside, and he's not particularly fond of going to the movies alone.”

  
They reached a shallow expanse of a staircase which opened to the tall white face of the building, striated with gray pillars. A large striped board listed various movie titles, none of which sounded familiar to Alexis—she hadn't been keeping up on the blockbusters. Within the pale stretch of the wall, the doors to the cinema gleamed like the pupil of an eye in the weak sunlight. Sherlock stepped effortlessly up the stairs, Alexis struggling to keep pace. Her quadriceps immediately started to cry with the sudden exertion on the incline. _I'm sweating_ , she realized incredulously. _It's cold enough to see my breath, and I'm sweating_. Even if the coat contained the odor and she managed not to gulp for air, the perspiration on her face would give away her exhaustion. This weakness was ridiculous, and it was starting starting to irritate her. Now not only was the sweat a tell-tale sign, but it was going to make her colder later on. Sweat in below-freezing temperatures was a good way to make one uncomfortable at best and mildly hypothermic at worst. Great. She frowned—what was even the temperatures outside? She had some experience with the Celsius system, but not much. How humid was it here? Did she need a thicker coat for later in the season? God, she didn't know anything—she could barely clothe herself, why the hell was she here?

  
They stepped through the glass doors, and immediately Alexis reveled in the wave of warmth that washed over them. The colors inside were bright, accentuated by the compact space and the vibrant poster perched on angled gray towers that pierced through the floor. Sherlock loosened his scarf in the heat as he walked, barely breaking his pace. After a brief pause, Alexis stumbled after him. “Is Dr. Watson coming?” she asked, beginning to catch her breath.

  
“John will be joining us later,” Sherlock replied brusquely, eyes scanning along the glass walls of the structure as he approached the staircase. With an internal groan, Alexis begrudgingly followed him down the staircase, grateful that he couldn't see her ungraceful strides. His own body barely jostled as his feet descended the stairs. “Something about late morning patients that he opted to attend to first.”

  
“Probably a good idea,” Alexis murmured, unfastening the top section of her coat. The same anxious dread fluttered in her chest; she was nervous to be around Sherlock on a case still, especially by herself. His gaze become so acridly focused, and she still felt like a barnacle hanging on for the ride. Was that really what he wanted—a wide-eyed audience to his exploits?

  
Sherlock suddenly came to a complete stop on the steps, catching Alexis by the arm and pulling her to a halt beside him. “I need you calm,” he ordered lowly, locking eyes with her. “Coming into a crime scene flustered makes everyone else anxious and less efficient.”

  
“I'm fine,” Alexis responded, trying to stave her defensiveness with irritation.

  
“I can practically see your pulse in your throat, and you're shaking. You're nervous again.”

  
“That's not 'shaking', that's shivering, I'm freezing. Okay, partially shaking, but not for that reason. I feel like I just ran a marathon, but I'll be fine.”

  
“Of course you're cold and tired; you lost a great deal of body mass, you're running on fumes. That's not all though, you're radiating anxiety.”

  
“Keen of you to notice that. I thought you weren't fluent in reading human emotions.”

  
“You're not exactly making it difficult. Even I can interpret the flushed face, the sudden bouts of silence, and the tense body gestures. Just because you're quiet doesn't mean you're subtle.”

  
“We're at a crime scene, why are you wasting time giving me a pep talk?”

  
“I don't think the victim's going anywhere. Anyway, it's not just charity—you're my assistant, I need to make sure you can assist me properly.”

  
“Don't you worry your logical little head over it,” Alexis snorted, rolling her eyes as she pulled her shoulder from Sherlock's grip. “Sherlock, I went through college for four years, I know how to pretend that I know what I'm doing.”

  
“We'll see.” Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he turned back to the stairway, gesturing around the corner on the left. “We're in here.”

  
They reached the bottom of the stairwell, which opened up in an open lounge area. A glossy bar sat beneath bright television monitors, a sophisticated touch to an otherwise cozy place. Furniture lined the walls, the cushions compressed from a long history of use. “I don't see anyone,” Alexis commented.

  
“They're in the theater. Door's on your left.” Sherlock gestured lightly behind her.

“I thought this was a crime scene. Why is it so quiet? Where are the officers? The witnesses? Where are the people?”

  
“That, is a good question,” Sherlock noted with a curious growl, stepping past her with his wide gait. The heavy doors were already propped open, a thin yellow strip of bold tape across the opening the only sign of something amiss. Light flooded the solitary theater, the faint hum of voices resonating inside. Alexis ducked quickly under the tape; Sherlock lifted it with one swift, impatient movement before he stooped under after her.

  
The theater itself looked sorely empty, the lights exposing a good twenty or thirty rows of empty orange seats gaping for inhabitants. Wide rows of red carpet divided the slanted floor, sloping down to the gray screen which hung limply now on the front wall. On the end of the fourth row, a huddle of officers and the forensics team circled a lone patron, his head still pointed loyally towards the screen with captive attention. The occasional flash of a camera eclipsed the view of the room, and even the hush of voices echoed off the hollow expanse of the walls. Alexis recognized Lestrade's face turned towards them, his expression a lined mixture of relief and dread. The inspector stepped back from the body in the chair, looking over Alexis's head to lock eyes with Sherlock.

  
“Didn't take you long,” Lestrade barked gruffly, the tone lacking any sense of surprise.

  
“We were in the neighborhood.” Sherlock slid past Alexis to stand by Lestrade, taking in the full view of the scene. His eyebrow arched at the sight of the body, lips parting thoughtfully. “I'm starting to see why you called me in.”

  
The man's head had bent back to lean into the top of his seat cushion, his neck angled painfully against the apex of his chair. He seemed normal enough—his dark jeans were tinted with the dust of crumbs wiped hastily away, his shoes were relatively worn from travel, and his button-up shirt was clean but ill-pressed, sleeves rolled to his elbows as a potential attempt at decent-looking simplicity. One rough hand clutched the armrest on his left; the other gripped something tightly under his shirt, an upwelling of blood drying in thick pools from his torso over his stout wrist. The man's mouth had fallen open, draining an abhorrent amount of blood into his crinkled mass of beard and staining his teeth a sanguine hue. The letters “IV” split the flesh of his forehead, carved deeply through the skin and shedding a sheet of blood which had cascaded down his face to his chin.

  
“One of the other people in the theater found him like this on their way out,” Lestrade explained. “Apparently it was a small crowd, only about ten people for a late-morning showing. None of them sat close together. A couple of them said this fellow was acting strange, making noises during the movie and such, but they assumed that maybe he was sick or something. Halfway through he quieted down and no one bugged him....took them until the credits were rolling to figure out what had happened.”

  
“Where are these people now?”

  
“We took their statements and let them go.”

  
“Good. Glad you didn't need me to tell you this was a suicide.”

  
“That part was easy enough. The knife is still in his hand, for God's sake.”

  
Sherlock pushed past Lestrade, stepping widely over the legs of the corpse to view it from the other side. “So presumptuous, Inspector, I thought I taught you better.”

  
“Are you saying this isn't a suicide?”

  
“Oh, he died by his own hand, all right. The placement of the knife, however, is not exactly the most relevant evidence for that.”

  
“The wound matches the theory; the angle of the cut shows that he sliced his stomach open and bled out.”

  
“See, that's much more satisfactory.” Sherlock kneeled, leaning his keen nostrils towards the fabric on the man's sleeve. The detective's eyes glimmered darkly in their examination. “Although you missed the part where he carved IV into his forehead.”

  
“That's the part that doesn't make sense. Seems kind of odd for a suicide note.”

  
Alexis tried to focus on the man's forehead rather than his face. For some reason, the gore was less unsettling than his blank, empty eyes. What kind of message was IV? Initials, perhaps? Some sort of medical metaphor? Or maybe... “What if they're not letters?” she asked hesitantly.

  
Immediately both mens' eyes snapped onto her, and their piercing stares caught her voice in her throat. “Then what are they?” Lestrade demanded, his tone more curious than impatient.

  
Alexis swallowed, directing her gaze towards Sherlock as best as she could. “Maybe my scope of these things is still really small, but the last body I saw had a V carved in her chest. What if they're not letters, but numbers? What if they're actually something like Roman numerals?” She gestured to the body. “Nothing else matches—the location, the type of victim, the methods. But isn't it a little weird that within such a short timespan, two victims show up with similar things carved into their bodies?”

  
The silent moment that followed felt impossibly heavy. Maybe she shouldn't have said anything—speaking out about hunches seemed like a bad habit to form around Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade folded his arms, turning to the body again. “Is it possible, Sherlock...?”

  
“I don't believe in coincidence.” The detective straightened, standing to his feet. He turned to Alexis suddenly with a frown, as if a thought had just struck him. “Why didn't you ask me to slow down?”

  
Alexis paused, brow furrowing in her confusion. “I'm sorry...?”

  
“Outside, on our way here. I'm not trying to run you ragged, so why didn't you ask?”

  
Alexis blinked. “We're doing this now?”

  
“I don't see why not.”

  
“Sherlock, there's a body!”

  
“He's not going to melt, we have time for you to answer me.”

  
No one else in the room spoke, pretending not to listen to the unfolding spat. Out of the corner of her eye, Alexis saw Lestrade glancing back and forth between her and Sherlock, unsure whether to be amused or disarmed. Alexis fought the urge to grit her teeth.

  
“What the hell is wrong with you? Isn't this what you live for?”

  
“Most people appreciate the attempts to be empathetic.”

  
“I just....seriously, Sherlock? A man is dead!”

  
“He's not the only one who'll do that today, and he opted into his. I don't see what's so alarming.”

  
“How about the roman numerals etched into his face? Is that not worthwhile to you?”

  
“It's intriguing, yes, hence why I'm still here.”

  
“Then why not take advantage, and deduce. You know, like you're doing every other second of your life?”

  
“You're being awfully confrontational, you know. Aren't you supposed to be helping me?”

  
“Yes, I am, so get your mind off my bodily functions and back in the game!”

  
Sherlock sighed, leaping gingerly over the body again and stepping out of the aisle. Alexis stepped back to give him space, staring incredulously at his gangly form. He angled his body towards her, chin tilting dangerously in her direction. “Then go ahead and ask, already. I can practically see the question written in your face.”

  
Alexis frowned. “If these are numerals, the last victim would be five, and this victim is four....”

  
“Then this is a countdown.”

  
“A countdown to what?”

  
Sherlock suddenly raised an excited index finger, eyes gleaming triumphantly as Alexis flinched back, startled. “That,” he answered smoothly, “is what we need to learn.”

  
The detective stood closer until the threads of his coat scraped against hers, and Alexis's eyes narrowed as she glared up to his face. “What exactly are you doing?” she whispered through clenched teeth.

  
Sherlock patted a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Making a point,” he replied lowly.

  
“Which is?”

  
He grinned, and she wanted nothing more than to punch that smirk off of his lips when he did that. “That you're much more fun when you're, shall I say, snarky.” He pushed past her, analyzing the rows behind the victim with thinly-veiled disinterest. “Not to mention, much more helpful.”

  
Her eyes followed him incredulously as he wandered in the aisle behind the body. “So you're just being an ass to get a reaction out of me?” she snapped in a hardened voice.

  
Sherlock gave a sharp laugh, clapping his gloved hands in amusement. “See, right there, I love it!” He turned, face falling into a slight pout at the sight of her unamused face. “You have to admit, it's much better than your mousy demeanor. You always seem so fragile when you're trying not to offend anybody, it's downright repulsive.”

  
“So you purposefully act like a prat, just to get me all worked up?”

  
“You said you liked me as a prat.”

  
“Why are we talking about this? Shouldn't you be working?”

  
“I'm multi-tasking,” Sherlock replied shortly, kneeling to seethe crack between the chairs. “Go on, I'm still listening.”

“I'm much more interested in what you're working on.”

  
“I will share when I am ready. I'm still waiting for an answer to my original question.”

  
“Oh, for God's sakes, Mr. Holmes—”

  
“Ahem.”

  
Alexis stood in silence for a brief moment, pursing her lips to choke back any outraged bursts. She breathed deeply through her nostrils. “Sherlock, if you do not tell us what you've figured out over there, I will literally find something to throw at you, I swear to God.”

  
“Resorting to violence, now?” Sherlock smirked. “I wonder what you would choose as your projectile. Nothing sharp, I'd hope, and nothing too expensive, you'd feel too guilty, so maybe a shoe...”

  
“Could we not focus on me for two seconds?” Alexis growled sharply.

  
“And who would you rather focus on?”

  
“How about number three?”

  
Sherlock raised an inquisitive gaze. “Number three...?”

  
Alexis clenched her fists. “You're clearly too distracted to focus on number Four, and I don't think number Five has even been on your radar, and if she has, you've been oddly quiet about it. There's a serial killer out there, Sherlock, one of your favorites, so for God's sakes, shut your trap about me and focus on what's happening. People are dying, there has to be a reason, and I don't understand why you're not all hot and bothered yet, because it's dramatic and theatrical and everything that you revel in here. This should be your playground right now. Even if you don't give a damn about what happened to these people, someone's counting down to something; it could be bad, and right now there's some sort of connection between this man's evisceration and whoever drowned number Five that could tell us who's next and what's to come. Something connects them, Sherlock, so find. The. Connection.”

  
Sherlock paused, his face hardening as he turned with a serious air back to the chair. He stood lithely. “Our victim is forty-four years old, a resident of London, and recently diagnosed with cancer on his heart, which he is both unwilling and unable to pay in order to treat it. He's been severely depressed and worsening, and has none of the amenities on his person such as a cellphone or even a wallet. There are bruises on his body—he's been in a recent struggle, but it doesn't appear to be a factor in his death. I'll be able to tell you more once we've identified him, but for now, I would theorize that somebody found him in a vulnerable state and recruited him for their own purposes...this countdown, as it were.”

  
Alexis released an exhale, the tension draining from her chest. This felt more natural—the hunt had returned to Sherlock's eyes. “Hold on a second,” Lestrade interjected, his voice harsh against the theater walls. “If you two are right, then this countdown killer isn't just a murderer, he's potentially a terrorist?”

  
“It's possible, depending on what he's counting down to,” Sherlock replied lightly.

  
“Well, I highly doubt he's counting down to the new year.”

  
“I would agree with that speculation.”

  
“Jesus,” Lestrade hissed to himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His gray eyes already seemed wearily tired. Alexis noticed the stress pull at the skin of his face as he dropped his hand again—this man's determination seemed to be the only thing holding his body together in those moments.

  
“Don't be so melodramatic, Inspector, matters of national security can be so dull most of the time. We should be grateful for the tasks with a little more color.”

  
“Color, like what's left of his forehead?”

  
“You have to admit, it's one of the more entertaining memos.”

  
Lestrade glanced to Alexis. “If I gave you my shoe, would you chuck it at his head?”

  
Sherlock frowned. “I don't think that's—”

  
“It's a little longer than you're used to, but the weight would make a bigger impact—”

  
“Cameras,” Sherlock snapped firmly, straightening his spine. The sudden spike of volume of his voice echoed a few seconds longer within the room. “This facility has some sort of camera surveillance, yes?”

  
Lestrade nodded shortly. “All the entrances, yeah. We're obtaining the footage now.”

  
“On site?”

  
“Yes...?”

  
Sherlock pointed a long finger at Alexis, gesturing to the door. “We'll want a copy of that footage. See what you can do.”

  
Lestrade frowned. “Sherlock, that's evidence—”

  
“And I'm not exactly official, Lestrade, but I'm confident in your skills in bureaucratic persuasion, I've given you more than enough practice.” He gestured to Alexis again. “Go. I want to see what this man just did before he died—every person he talked to, every woman he leered at, every itch he scratched. People are very telling when they know they're about to die.”

  
Alexis hesitated. “And how am I supposed to convince them to hand over evidence to a stranger...?”

  
Sherlock's form tensed with impatience. “This is a low priority case, since it's pretty clearly a suicide and not a murder, and you're a young, petite blonde woman. Do the math.”

  
She was still less than convinced, but Sherlock didn't seem eager to argue the matter. The very thought of the confrontation made her anxious—she had never been very persuasive, as she was more interested in manipulating variables, not people. Still, she was the assistant...it came with the territory. Without any additional protest, she quickly walked back up the angled aisle, the mens' eyes boring into her back until she was through the door and out of sight.

  
Once she had gone, Lestrade turned with folded arms back to Sherlock. “Well, you two have gotten...close.”

  
“You seem uncertain of it,” Sherlock responded lazily, turning his gaze back to the body.

  
“I'm not exactly sure if it counts as 'close'... You're on speaking terms, at least, so that's helpful...you know, considering last time.”

  
“I remember.”

  
Lestrade cleared his throat as Sherlock kept his eyes on the body, examining the corpse as Lestrade shifted on his own feet. “So you're keeping her on as an assistant, then?”

  
“Yep.” The last consonant fell harshly off of Sherlock's lips.

  
“It's funny, I always expect you to find someone as smart as you.”

  
“I don't need someone who's smart, I need someone who's stubborn.”

  
“Was John not stubborn enough for you?”

  
“John's plenty stubborn. He's just been a little less available lately.”

  
“So you replaced him?”

  
“I didn't replace him,” Sherlock replied scathingly, “I merely incorporated someone else.”

  
“And he's okay with that?”

  
“He's ecstatic. You should've seen his face when I proposed the idea—he was so very proud that I was 'branching out' and interacting with our new guest. Incredibly frustrating.”

  
“So he's just happy that you're trying to make a new friend?”

  
Sherlock scoffed. “Friend, please. She's a case, Lestrade, you know that. I don't 'befriend' clients.”

  
“Is she a case or a client then?”

  
“Both, I suppose. What does it matter?”

  
“You get attached to your cases, is all.”

  
Sherlock's face darkened as he stepped out of the aisle. “If you're implying that I'm forming some sort of intimate relationship with that girl, you are sorely—”

  
“I'm not implying anything of the sort!” Lestrade interrupted, biting back a bitter laugh. “God, with you, I can't even imagine it. There is such thing as just caring about someone, you know.” He stopped Sherlock to stand beside him. “You can't tell me that you don't feel at least a little sorry for her.”

  
Sherlock glared, frown tightening. “Does my 'caring' about her benefit her at all?”

  
“Oh, come off it, Sherlock. You're antagonizing her just short of giving her an aneurysm, because you know that being angry is better than being numb. Admit it.”

  
“I don't have to admit anything.”

  
“You're right, you don't. But I can tell, Sherlock, this isn't just you being a git. You purposefully push her buttons so she can't withdraw. You'd rather see her flustered and distracted, because at least then she gets to have a sense of herself rather than getting locked inside her own head.”

  
“And why would I be so outlandishly selfless?”

  
“Because you know what it's like to feel so isolated. Don't think I didn't see the way things changed when John came into the picture with you—you can deny it to your grave, but the indestructible Sherlock Holmes didn't realize he was lonely until he found a friend.”

  
“Don't accuse me of something so juvenile.”

  
“It's not juvenile, it's human, and despite some strongly-worded debate, I'm still of the opinion that you are human. Just because you're a self-claimed sociopath doesn't meant you're exempt from all the fun.” Lestrade grinned. “Wanna know how I know?”

  
“By all means, enlighten me.”

  
“You drag all the people you value into danger with you. It's your weird way of complimenting people. People you hate or that hate you get left on the sidelines—you thrust the people you care about into your antics, probably because they're the people you deem fit to keep up.”

  
“Your point?”

  
“You and your new 'assistant' just shared your first serial killer together. It's like a rite of passage with you.”

  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, staring over his shoulder at the smirking Inspector. The detective's moment of silence was all the answer Lestrade needed, and his thin grin broadened. “You have a lot of hope for me, don't you?” Sherlock clipped incredulously.

  
“I'm a hopeful, stubborn man,” Lestrade replied with a chuckle. “It doesn't take a genius to deduce that.”

  
“I suppose so,” Sherlock muttered in bemusement, an eyebrow arching in response. “You still think I'm capable of anything, it seems.”

  
“I've learned that you're full of surprises, yes.”

  
“Well, for the sake of number Three,” Sherlock replied lowly with a glance to the body perched stoically in its chair, “I better be.”


	6. The Bite of the Needle (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is taking forever, and you'll soon see why--there's so much going on!  
> I find I tend to decrease the descriptive nature of my writing when the action picks up--even so, I'm on page 7 and barely halfway through this sequence.
> 
> Therefore, to NOT have an egregiously long wall of text, I'm splitting it up. The next part should be coming soon!
> 
> Oh, and by the way, it starts to get graphic here. (If it's any consolation, it was as hard to write as it is to read.)
> 
> Enjoy!

Dr. Watson's movements rustled in the early morning hours throughout the stillness of the flat. Even without opening her eyes, Alexis knew it was him; she recognized the short footfalls on the carpet, short and heavy and accentuated by the soft occasional grunts in his throat. She remained still on the cushions, knees bent to keep her ankles from draping off the end. Her full stomach felt soft against the arm pinned under her side—it probably would have been a better idea to eat a smaller amount at a time while she was still technically recovering, but the night before Sherlock had made it an experiment of his own to see what foods she liked, and it was impossible to dissuade him from thrusting plates in her hands once science was involved. He had even gone out to get more ingredients; Dr. Watson had almost promised to help her, until he had caught sight of Sherlock in the doorway clutching an armful of groceries. _“You got that man to buy milk for once_ ,” the doctor had laughed. “ _There's no way I'm mucking that up._ ”

  
His footsteps paused in front of her, and Alexis barely dared to breathe. There was no real reason for her to feign being asleep, but she liked observing what people did when they didn't believe she would notice. That's partially why she liked Dr.Watson; his actions didn't really change regardless. He might grumble under his breath a little more, but that was the only difference. She heard him grab something before he stooped and draped a blanket over her, the fabric enveloping her body up to her chin. The warmth felt soothing against her skin, and she resisted the urge to wriggle in further. Apparently satisfied, Dr. Watson stepped back and began his usual journey to the kitchen. Morning tea, Alexis noted. Going to warm up the kettle before grabbing the newspaper.  
Something sounded at the door—a quick ring as someone jammed the doorbell. The noise was succinct, cutting through the air shortly before dying off again. Dr. Watson's footsteps ceased as he hesitated at the opening of the kitchen.

  
 _A client_? Alexis groaned inwardly. _That means I actually have to move_.

  
Dr. Watson—evidently dressed or well-robed—stepped out the door, his footsteps moving curiously down the stairs to investigate the visitor. Alexis turned her nose into the cushion, better positioning her ear as she strained to hear the happenings downstairs. There was a strange man's voice resonating in the hallway; the tone sounded like a clenched growl, rough even through a forcefully given laugh. The doctor's voice echoed in the stairwell also; his gravelly voice was still low and tired, but undulated with friendly familiarity. Whoever was at the door, Dr. Watson knew well. She could only catch the occasional word here and there, but from what broken phrases she could hear and by the hard rise of pitch in the doctor's voice, it seemed that the visitor was one of John's patients.

  
“Now?”

  
That was Dr. Watson's inquiry, although it echoed the question in Alexis's own head at the moment.

  
“Please, doctor.” The man's voice was earnest, although a little hushed. “I know it's early...”

  
“Wouldn't you feel more comfortable making an appointment...?”

 

“It's nothing like that. It's just...it's what I told you about last time.”

  
Dr. Watson hesitated. “I'm not sure I'm the one you should be talking to about that. There are professionals that could help you better. I could refer to you a psychiatrist...”

  
“I don't want a shrink, Doctor, I just need someone I can trust. You've been to war, you'd understand more than anyone else.”

  
“I don't know, Mr. Scott...”

  
“You said you'd help me.”

  
A moment of silence passed before Alexis heard Dr. Watson sigh. “Let me grab my coat,” he urged, his steps creaking on the stairs as he ascended. The noise thinned as he reached the top of the stairs, entering the flat with a whuff of air in his stiff movements. Alexis heard the fluff of his coat as he lifted it off the hook, wrapping it around his shoulders. With a nonchalant hum in his throat, the doctor then swiveled his body to look over his shoulder, the fabric of his coat betraying the motion. He then strode purposefully to the other side of the room, pausing in front of the desk. He slid open a drawer, the wood exhaling as it was unsheathed. The hard surface of an object scraped against the bottom of the drawer as he removed something before shutting the drawer again quietly. Dr. Watson then sauntered normally out the entryway, the steps fading into the carpet. The moment he stepped out the door, Alexis's eyes snapped open.

  
 _He grabbed his gun_.

  
Watson was a doctor, but he was also a soldier, and soldiers didn't bring their guns unless they were anticipating battle. Dr. Watson clearly thought there might be some sort of danger in this innocuous house visit. Alexis threw the blanket off of her and leapt to her feet, tossing her body towards the door with a surprising jolt of momentum. In a few long strides she reached the opposite wall and yanked her coat down, curling it around her body as the weight of the phone in her pocket slapped into her hips. She paused only after she had slipped her feet into her shoes. Should she grab Sherlock? He was certainly more qualified in these matters, but he also in the middle of a much-needed slumber, having not slept for two days. The time it would take to barge into his room, tap him awake, and try to convey the urgency while avoiding any wrathful glares would be a substantial feat. By the time she'd convince himself to drag himself out of bed—given he found her worry warranted—she'd have no idea where the two men had gone. _You shouldn't be running off on your own,_ she thought to herself, hands hesitating to grasp the zipper of her coat. Maybe she could wake Sherlock, and he could call Dr. Watson....but there was no guarantee that he would answer truthfully, if at all, and they were drifting farther away with every second she waited.

  
 _I'm gonna lose them_.

  
Gritting her teeth, Alexis finished zipping her coat and sped out the door, grabbing the corner of the wall to pull herself around. She gingerly descended the stairs, careful to make her footfalls light as she shoved a hand into her pocket, her fingers finding the cool surface of the cellphone. Once she stepped outside, she glanced to her left, where Dr. Watson and his patient Scott were ambling slowly. Alexis remained still for a few moments, extracting the phone from her pocket in an attempt to look nonchalant. She didn't want either the doctor or Scott to take notice of her; any flustered movements might prompt them to turn around. She had to look relaxed while her careful eyes strained to keep Watson's brown jacket in her sight. Swiping her thumb across the screen, she quickly brought up Sherlock's name as she turned to walk in the same direction as the two men in front of her, her footsteps painfully slow as her eyes darted from the screen back to her targets. She hastily typed a message on the phone, occasionally striking the wrong key and angrily deleting the mistake impatiently with her other hand. The message was probably poorly crafted—she'd accept Sherlock's bemusement towards her grammar later. Once she hit send, she shoved the phone back into her pocket while still clutching in in her hand, hoping desperately that it would shudder with a response soon. With every step, she was starting to feel the chills under her skin as she realized she had no idea what kind of situation she was barreling straight into. The hesitation wasn't enough to freeze her stiff limbs, but she had to struggle against her imagination. She stared at the back of Scott's head; he seemed relatively harmless, with a straggly mess of a dark cowlick and thick simple clothing that looked well-worn on his broad frame. He kept looking to Watson's face with a sense of eagerness, almost too carefully...or maybe her perception was warped by the fact that Watson had prepared for danger. She trusted the doctor's instincts more than her own at the moment.

  
She twisted her body through other pedestrians, ginger in her movements. She pulled the phone slightly out of her pocket to check the screen—no response. She combed her fingers through her hair nervously, attempting to tame her tresses as a way to seem distracted. She had to look like another passerby—how far was she supposed to hang back? How much distance was too much, or too close? She probably looked entirely conspicuous, but it was too late to turn away, and the men seemed too entranced in their conversation to notice her. Dr. Watson's seemed especially alert; he looked concerned, as a doctor would be for his patient, but there was more to it than that—he was wary. Something about this patient made him uneasy. If Sherlock barely made Watson flinch, it took a special kind of character to unsettle Dr. Watson.

  
Should she call Lestrade? She brightened slightly at the idea, before suddenly sinking back into a cynical sigh. What would she say—that Dr. Watson went on a stroll and she didn't like his friend? Just thinking it felt juvenile; besides, her voice might alert the men in front of her. Damn it. She stepped past a family of three who glanced to her with quaint frowns, unfamiliar with her face. Ahead of her, the two men had stopped—crap. She swung herself over towards the side of building and rested against the surface, pretending to stare at her feet while slouching her shoulders. Blend in, she ordered herself, blend—act like you're supposed to be here. She had watched the pedestrians outside enough to be able to emulate at least some of their habits. Today had to look like a normal day, just another girl traversing the streets in her daily routine. Out of the corner of her eye, she lifted her gaze to monitor the men down the sidewalk from her. She almost didn't raise her stare in time to see Scott strike.

  
The move was small; Dr. Watson barely noticed it himself. Scott had raised his arm as if to pat Watson's shoulder, and had plunged something into the muscle—most likely some sort of syringe. The subtlety of the motion was enough to hide the needle from passerby, but Alexis saw how Watson twitched in reaction, his eyes widening. Scott dragged his hand back to his hip, casually hiding the syringe. The effects were immediate; Watson stumbled back a few steps, Scott grasping his arms to support him with a kind face. The doctor's face had hardened in a numb panic, lips twitching without any sound. Meanwhile his patient gripped Watson obligingly, almost with a tinge of sympathy. Scott hailed a cab with a quick hand, holding Watson upright with a gentle smile as the vehicle slowed next to them. He maneuvered to the door while leaning Watson's weakening body onto his own frame, the doctor's throat pulsing with words that he couldn't push past his tongue.

  
“My buddy had a little too much fun last night,” Scott laughed into the cab as he cradled Watson into the car, the doctor's blinking face disappearing from Alexis's view. Alexis heard Scott's voice lower to give an unfamiliar address, and the man lifted Watson's legs charitably into the vehicle before climbing in himself. The door slammed behind him, and the cab snarled back to life.

  
This wasn't what she had prepared for. She wasn't qualified to do anything but sit back and whimper at this point. Still, as her fingers pressed against a dead silent phone, she realized that she had a bad habit of hurling into these situations, without much care to the consequences. Those crazy thoughts were stronger in her head now—the small urges to chase after these fixes, those small moments of relief from being numb, usurped her will so easily.  
She could be safe, like she was expected. Call the police, call Sherlock, sit back quietly and wait. That would be the smart thing to do. That was what she would usually have done, in any other circumstances. For now, though, the thought of letting those taillights disappear wrenched her chest too harshly. Dr. Watson was in danger; was she supposed to just let him slip away? She abhorred feeling powerless like this; hell, she'd rather do something stupid than nothing at all. That was a vice she'd have to confront one day, she decided. She pushed herself off the wall, legs heated with adrenaline. Digging her heels into the pavement, Alexis ripped her hands out of her pockets and sprinted after the cab.

  
* * * *

  
John woke with a blinding ache in his forehead. He felt heat churning in his aching temples, the muscles of his face stiff and sore with every rigid movement that crinkled his skin. His teeth were clenched tightly, a limp tongue weakly rising to the roof of his mouth. He felt the pain sink from the bottom of his skull down the lines of his shoulders as he slowly slipped more and more into consciousness. Squeezing the muscles of his shoulder-blades around his spine, John arced his heavy neck, a low groan scratching in his throat.

  
“Easy, now, Dr. Watson.”

  
The voice solidified with every word, gradually echoing less hollowly in John's aching skull. John finally managed to crack open his eyes, his vision blurred and watery. He craned his neck to lift his head, the vertebrae straining under the tired weight. He blinked until the images started to sharpen; he could make out the walls of a dark room, and a man's tall frame standing at a distance. “Scott...?” he croaked softly.

  
“Ah, ah, ah, Dr. Watson, gently now. The drug is still in your system, it'll be a few minutes before you're back and kicking. Not that I'd advise it—you might hurt yourself that way.”

  
John's head dropped back down, resting on the side of his forehead as he continued to awaken. He stared down the length of his body; he was lying on a table, his wrists restrained and locked on the edge with thick plastic. A small pull of his legs showed that his ankles were bound in a similar way. “Mr. Scott, what the hell...?”

  
“Terribly sorry to inconvenience you like this, doctor,” Scott replied sympathetically, the thin sound of tinkering metal accentuating his words as he prepared something our of John's view. “You can at least rest assured that I got the dosage right. You're not the only medical maven in these parts.”  
John twisted on the table, the hard surface pinching into the weak muscles of his back. He used what was left of his strength to wrench at his ties, which held firm. The aches were dissipating slowly throughout his flesh; his brain was nearly fully awake, but his body remained stiff and useless. “If you're looking for your firearm, I checked that with your coat at the door,” Scott continued lightly, placing something on the desk in front of him. “Glad to know I'm not the only one who carries the war around with him still.”

  
John's breaths were deep and labored—his throat still felt heavy. “Is that what this is?” he choked. “The war?”

  
“This? Oh, no, that's not quite why I brought you here.” John heard Scott tap a few strokes on a keyboard. “This is entirely business, I assure you.”

  
As his vision settled, John raised his eyes to scan the room. Scott had brought him to a flat—at very bare flat, at that. It hardly resembled anything reminiscent of a place for someone to live. The walls were a grisly tan color, with only the occasional shadow as decoration. The usual furnishings had been pushed away to the corner, isolating a small habitable corner that showed signs of anything habitable, and giving a wide expanse of thin carpet where Scott had set up his station of sorts. A desktop computer whirred comfortably on the desk where Scott stood meticulously analyzing various medical equipment that glinted in John's view. The tools almost looked asinine in his large hands, with such a broad benevolent face surveying the metal with a kind stare. After hearing a soft whine, John lifted his eyes further to see a second table, with a collarless stray dog strapped to the table in a similar fashion, its limbs all anchored to one side of the table. It looked like a spaniel mix, with a lean frame and matted auburn fur. The dog shivered against its restraints, occasionally contorting its long thin body to look at John with wide, frantic eyes. “Mr. Scott,” John finally rasped, “whatever this is, you don't want to do this. We can get help for you.”

  
“Your concern is touching, doctor.” Scott gave an eerily genuine smile. “But this isn't my way of coping, if that's what you're so worried about. Like I said, it's purely business.”

  
“What sort of business?” John demanded through gritting teeth, his words still coming percussively off a lazy tongue.

  
“We're both soldiers, Dr. Watson, so we both know that getting back into civilian life isn't easy. I was unemployed for quite a long spurt, there, until a pharmaceutical company found me that was as desperate as I was. They hired me on as a consultant, to conduct some tests that wouldn't look too good on their official advisory board.”

  
“Why you?”

  
“Why not me? I blend in well, I have combat experience, I'm good with my hands. I don't have any real ties to many of the people around here, but I'm sociable enough. I'm a good employee, Dr. Watson, you needn't sound so surprised.”

  
John pulled against his restraints again, the plastic cutting into the soft flesh of his wrists. “I take it you're going to tell me about this gracious employer of yours?” he snarled in frustration.

  
“As a matter of fact, I am.” Scott finally selected a syringe, and began to slowly saunter to the tables, the light glistening off his shaven face. “Because you'll understand, doctor, more than anyone.”

  
“I'm listening.”

  
“We're under attack, doctor, at war with enemies too cruel to play fairly. ARANA, the company that found me, understands that. They've found a solution, albeit one less savory than our officials could hope to accept.” He lifted the syringe. “Biology, my dear doctor, is the advantage we need.”

  
“We don't use that type of warfare.”

  
“And why not?” Scott's lip curled. “This is a drug that could soon ensure our victory. Imagine, an effective poison gruesome enough to make a point, but selective enough to ensure civilians never turn into casualties.”

  
“We have those, and they're banned for a reason.”

  
“Not like this, we don't.” Scott grinned gently again, stepping to the other side of the table bearing the dog. The pup squirmed desperately, its claws scraping the table. “I've seen too many innocents die in war, doctor, sometimes from my own hands. Isn't it downright barbaric, that after all this time, we still fight wars with these indiscriminate, archaic shards of metal?” Scott gripped one of the dog's limbs, stroking it assuringly. “No, I stand with ARANA: a new way of waging war is long since overdue.”

  
In his other hand, Scott perched his thumb over the syringe as John watched with widening eyes. “What are you doing?” the doctor demanded hoarsely.

  
Scott lifted his gaze. “I'm going to show you,” he answered kindly. “I mean, it's all words until you actually see it, right? This is what ARANA has been sending me, and the stuff is amazing. I've been testing it for months. I've had to be sneaky, of course—I'd snag the occasional stray pet, or on good days, maybe a homeless junkie with twelve good hours left in his life. Not good enough specimens, though, not to my liking. We have to be sure this stuff will work on strong men in their prime, and we can't do that if I'm working with mutts and addicts.” Scott gave a sweet smile, still innocuous with his youthful face. “That's why I was so happy when I ran into you in the practice, doctor. You were absolutely perfect. You had the resolve and the body of a soldier, exactly the sample I needed.”

  
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” John answered dryly through a cracking throat.

  
“I would dare say so. This is a noble cause, doctor. Project Elijah is a service to this country.”

  
“Project Elijah?”

  
“Fitting name, isn't it? Sounds like a grand undertaking, gloriously brutal.” Scott shook his head. “But trust me, doctor, it's worth the sacrifice. I'm not the only one involved, either, you know. The scale of this goes so far beyond street peddlers like me.”

  
The dog whined incessantly, its whimpers a screech of panic under Scott's gentle hold. “How far beyond you?” John asked reluctantly.

  
“The network is huge, doctor. We're everywhere. We're in every country, every ignorant little bustling town, working and watching.” His hand slid down from the dog's bony limb to its trembling shoulder. “And there are rumors, now, rumors that we've finally made progress lately. Someone leaked something about a find on a research ship that sank on the way here. Not a lot of information on that, though, I'm afraid, at least for us street testers.”

  
That smile was incredibly unnerving in how ordinary it was. Scott might as well have been raving about his favorite television show—he was too calm, composed enough to keep a steady hand, and yet so quietly eager to gage John's reaction. John's eyes narrowed. “Why are you so talkative about this with me, if it's supposed to be so secretive?”

  
Scott winked. “What can I say—I'm excited.”

  
With that, he lifted the skin of the dog's neck and stuck the needle into the tissue, pressing his thumb on top of the syringe. The dog squealed and whipped its frame against the restraints as Scott stepped back, a serene look of satisfaction on his gentle face. The table groaned in protest as the dog flailed wildly, more out of panic than pain. Its claws shrieked as they failed to find purchase on the table, the sound sharp in the small flat. Scott watched him intently as John winced at the sound of the dog's shaky cries, punctuated by the heavy thuds of the dog's body slamming back into the table. A few long moments passed before the pup finally ceased its writhing, shivering against the hard surface of the table beneath its terrified frame. There the dog remained quivering, staring with wide terrified eyes back at John.

  
John's tongue remained still behind his teeth, struggling to control the rate of his breathing. His eyes darted from the dog to Scott, who had begun to stroll lazily back to his desk. “Patience, doctor,” he laughed lightly, tracing a lithe hand on the edge of the desk. “It takes a moment to hit the system.”

  
From his left, John could hear the dog's ribs rustle against the table. The doctor forced himself to look back at the mutt, which continued to lock its stare in his direction, but didn't seem be be consciously looking through those glossed eyes. The dog's mouth was slackened open, tongue lolled onto the table from between rows of petite white teeth. Its throat gaped with deep labored breaths, each inhale a gentle wave throughout its body. Each swell of breath began to quicken as they riveted through the mutt's bones; the pup's muscles began to pulsate with small, subtle twitches. The dog's shoulder began to rub its thin flesh against the table with the movements, rocking its body as its respiration became desperate, almost pleading. Weak groans and whimpers resonated in the dog's esophagus, falling raw from the dog's lungs off a limp slab of a tongue. Slowly, the dog's jaw began to tighten towards the roof of its mouth, weakly struggling to lift the weight of its tongue to its palate. The pup looked like it was trying to bark; the sounds in its throat cracked and spurted melodically. With a great visible amount of effort, the mutt managed to lift its head meekly off the table, the ends of its fur still brushing the surface.  
The low grunt in the dog's throat crescendoed to an ear-piercing whine, and the dog's spine suddenly slammed against the table. John jumped as the dog's jaw snapped violently and sank its teeth into the flesh of its tongue, ripping through the limp mass as the its body convulsed maniacally. Its legs stiffened to their full length, slapping uselessly against the edge of the table—John heard the slender bones crack with the force. The whines caved into a guttural squeal that raked through the room, saturated with agony that felt heavy in the air. The table rattled under the force, the dog's serpentine frame thrashing brutally against the unforgiving surface. Fur rubbed away from bruised flesh, the friction ripping the tresses out of the dog's skin and occasionally peeling chunks of skin with them. Bones fractured under every collision; the ribs by now were crooked remnants in their chest cavity. The side of the dog's face had shattered from continuously smacking into the table, crushing the socket of the eye and pulverizing its temple. Its jaw had continued gnashing viciously, turning the dog's mouth into a cavern of gore; the lips were shredded underneath its stained nose, the tongue unrecognizable in the carnage of masticated pulp. A wretched stench filled the room as a bloody, gritty mess sloughed from beneath the dog's tail onto the table, a swollen intestinal mass that seeped over the edge of the table and dripped black fluid onto the floor. With a choked hiccup, the dog contracted its stomach and spewed a gush of dark blood, staining the inside of its mouth scarlet. Its body shuddered, suddenly still from its vicious convulsions. Slowly, the dog's body dropped to rest back on the table, gradually becoming motionless as it rested its head in a sanguine puddle. The last rigid twitches in its bloodied fur faded until its body finally became still.

  
The next moment of silence echoed with the hollow residue of death. John scarcely felt himself breathe; the dog's excruciating wails still rang in his ears, leaving a sour taste in the palate of his mouth. Scott seemed unperturbed by the violence which had left such gruesome carnage which was presently leaking onto his carpet. The man calmly strode to his computer, tapped a sequence of keys deftly, and grunted approvingly when the dim light of a recording webcam came into view. He selected a prepared syringe and lifted it in front of his face, his soft eyes flickering over the amount as he mentally reevaluated his calculations. Evidently satisfied, Scott turned back to the tables, and John felt his restraints go cold against the flesh of his wrist. “Your turn, doctor,” Scott mused lowly.

  
Scott stepped forward with the syringe in hand, and John immediately jerked uselessly against his restraints, which held firm. Scott's expression remained stern in concentration, the only betrayal of his excitement shown by a slow curl in the corner of his mouth. John's eyes remained fixed on the tip of the needle, which flickered dangerously as it drew close. Scott had nearly reached the foot of the table before both men heard the soft mechanical click of a gun's safety switch.


	7. The Bite of the Needle (Part II)

When Sherlock had talked about chasing after cabs, he always made it sound so easy. Alexis suspected that his egregiously long legs had something to do with it—she could just picture him loping after the car like a gazelle, with the tails of his coat flapping behind him. Even at her healthiest, Alexis wasn't a sprinter, she was a distance runner; no training could have prepared for chasing down a moving vehicle. Thankfully, the cab threaded through tight urban streets, with small parties of pedestrians and pools of traffic slowing transit to a manageable speed. Once the initial rush of adrenaline settled in her system, Alexis remembered that Scott might be watching for any signs of suspicion; blatantly following the cab would draw his attention. She forced herself to weave through other passing pedestrians to veil her presence, poorly mimicking a normal citizen with agitated strides. Her legs felt heavy from the need for control, heated in impatience. She suspected that the stress of the situation was the only reason they weren't currently collapsing from exhaustion. Her eyes darted from the black windows to the glaring screen of her phone, still devoid of any response from Sherlock. She had even called at one point—no response, not even an attempt to block the call. Frustrated, she put the phone back in her pocket to focus on her pursuit, still gripping the device in a sweaty palm.

  
The cab finally slowed in front of an innocuous-looking flat; the siding perched on the sidewalk with the same passive presence as a flowerpot. Scott lifted a groggy Watson by the arm through the cab door, still laughing through the end of some story with the cab driver. That saintly smile of his must have made him seem like such charming passenger—no wonder they believed he was really helping a drunken friend home. Dr. Watson hung limply off of Scott's broad shoulders as Scott shut the door behind them. As the vehicle drove away, Alexis noticed Scott's face as he carried the two men to the doorstep; his face was at ease, eyes flickering only to his pocket to locate his keys. The man was too elated and too focused on his captive to suspect anyone had discovered what he'd done. Either he was naïve, or he was truly that confident in his methods. Good—either way could work in her favor.

  
Alexis glanced desperately to her phone one last time—still no response from Sherlock. Even if she called the police at this point, she had no idea where she was, and God knows what would happen to Dr. Watson in the time it took for them to get there. As the front door began to close behind Scott's back, Alexis felt the same anxious urge grind in her teeth. Stiffly, she began to step carefully to the front of the flat, nostrils flaring with her deep inhales to steady her nerves. The sound of the pavement beneath her feet seemed impossibly loud as she steered down the sidewalk; after an arduously long sequence of numb strides, she reached the arcane building, and found herself standing in front of the peeling grains of Scott's wooden door.

  
She could practically smell the flaking paint. Her heartbeat was high now; whether it was adrenaline or the anxious journey here, she didn't know. She could feel her ribs shiver beneath her cotton t-shirt, contrasting sharply with the domestic white-noise of the streets. She simply stood there for a few moments, afraid to move; part of her wondered if Scott would be able to sense her presence as her breath warmed the door. Her eyes dropped to the frame of the door, where the lukewarm air of the flat slowly leaked outside. The door hadn't latched completely behind Scott, leaving a crack where the structure hung loosely on its hinges. Alexis held her breath and strained her ears; she could hear faint footsteps on the other side of the door. Scott's low, jovial voice soaked into the walls as he walked—the continuous ascending shuffling of his burdened feet sounded like he was carrying Dr.Watson up stairs. The footsteps were far from her now—she heard the heavy thumps of the doctor's dragging feet fade as the men disappeared, possibly into another room. Breathing shallowly, Alexis lifted her hand and pushed lightly on the door with narrow fingertips. The door parted with a soft and barely audible squeak, opening with ease to expose a thin gap of air. Alexis gripped the edge of the door and squeezed herself through the gap, careful to move her body in fluid motions. She stepped gingerly inside, slowly closing the door behind her until it touched the door frame, but didn't latch.

  
Her skin crackled in the air of this strange flat; as she glanced around, it all but seemed deserted. Dark doorways gaped from the ground-floor hallway—Scott seemed to be the only resident here. Her face hardened in her focus, casting her glare up the stairwell. She could still here the rough tones of Scott's voice, dampened by the walls. Dr. Watson's voice hadn't joined him yet—that worried her. Alexis approached the stairs with careful strides, begging the floor not to betray her with its creaking. The thin carpet seemed to disguise her steps adequately—as she placed a gentle foot on the first stair, the structure accepted her weight without any protest. With a low exhale through her lips, Alexis ascended the stairs one painful step at a time, careful to maneuver her body slowly, lest any sharp movement defiantly give away her presence. Her limbs quivered with the effort, but she forced herself to take it one motion at a time. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity of poorly-lit stairs, Alexis reached the top of the stairwell, where a glaring light cascaded through the bottom of a bulky door.

  
Again, Scott had failed to nudge the door securely closed; Alexis figured that carrying a full-grown man made that hip motion difficult. This door was nearly shut, with the latch pushed in halfway, but not quite secure in its corresponding divot in the door frame. She leaned towards the doorway, crouched towards the carpet. The noises in the flat were coming from the opposite side of the room; something obstructed the way. Swallowing hard, Alexis gripped the door handle and pulled it to its farthest extent, pressing the door partway open noiselessly. The light widened to strike her face, causing her to flinch initially. The flat opened into a small cubby area for the first few feet; rows of shoes and a tower of hanging coats were draped on the wall to her right. She recognized Dr. Watson's coat right away, the heavy fabric wrinkled and tapered with an unusual object in its pocket. Alexis carefully slid her body through the doorway, limbs bent steeply to keep her low to the ground. After checking that Scott was nowhere in view, she reached her arm into the folds of the doctor's coat and retrieved the object. She pulled back with his gun in her grasp; the army issue SIG Sauer gleamed in the pale light, its dark surfaces obviously regularly cleaned. The firearm felt awkwardly heavy in her hand; she wasn't very familiar with guns. She had an adequate knowledge of them, yes, but just enough to not shoot her own foot. Even so, she gripped the pistol tightly and lowered it near her hip; the weight of it felt comforting in her palm, even if she was more likely to club someone with it than actually shoot the thing.

  
The sound of Scott's voice from the other side of the flat made Alexis jump. She slowly pressed the door closer to its frame behind her, without fully shutting it. Moving her stiff muscles as gingerly as she could muster, Alexis shifted her body across the floor to the opposite wall. Scott's voice was smooth, masterful; it was soon accompanied by Dr.Watson's tired rasp, which made Alexis's heart jump in her chest. His voice wasn't moving around the room—was he restrained? He seemed downright ragged, but as he woke, he started to piece more and more words together. He was alive—that was a good sign, at least. That hopeful rise in her chest drained, however, when she heard the name ARANA fall off of Scott's lips.

  
The last time she had heard that name, it had been dark. The air had been searingly cold. The waves have been snarling against the dark side of the ship, and her eyes had barely adjusted to see the gleam of eyes behind a plastic mask as steely hands locked her against the cold table. She felt her hands tremble against the smooth texture of the gun in her palm, and she gripped it with her second hand to keep steady. Scott spoke of ARANA with such love in his voice, such hope...it was revolting. Such a seemingly kind, naïve man, with such destruction under his fingertips. Scott continued, continuing his lavish praise of Project Elijah. That name also shuddered through her veins with a bitterly algid rush; too many time, that name had echoed in her ears when she was left alone in the darkness. Her chest squeezed at the mention of the research ship—of all the people to know, to celebrate. Alexis forced herself to breathe; panicking now wouldn't help anyone. A chill ran down her spine as she realized that Dr.Watson was under ARANA's scope now, and she knew exactly what happened next.

  
The dog's whimpers had come as a surprise to her—Scott had evidently come prepared. Once the man had seemingly stepped back with a growl of satisfaction, Alexis tried to steel her nerves. Even without seeing it, the horrid squeals confirmed what she already knew to be happening. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block it out; even the noises alone were enough to fill her head and overwhelmingly eclipse her thoughts. The sounds of the pup ripping itself to pieces filled the room, enclosed in the sound-proofing materials perched on the walls. The very air began to taste of blood as the howls intensified, and she heard the broken body flog itself on the table in a desperate attempt to escape. She pressed a palm tightly to her mouth, her tongue suddenly flushed with the taste of bile. It felt like hours before the agonizing wails finally faded, and the silence flooded the room. Her nostrils flared with desperate inhales, hoping the sound of her breath couldn't be heard over the fragile quiet that had settled over the flat. Too many memories soaked into her brain with this familiar silence, crashing through her head all at once. The same eviscerating sensation curled in her gut: the shaking powerlessness, the numb breaths, the hollow and overwhelming stench of death. It wasn't until she felt her fingers quiver against the pistol that her vision suddenly sharpened.

  
She wasn't tied down this time. She wasn't starved, or weary, or tortured. She was perfectly free,; free to run, free to leave. Free to fight, or scream, or call for help. This wasn't the Sayanara. She was just a malnourished, naïve, completely inexperienced girl who had trespassed into a flat of which she didn't know the address, holding a gun that was next to useless in her hands. From the outside, it had to look absolutely asinine. She was stupid, restless, careless. Was she supposed to believe she could do anything useful in this situation? The fear bubbled in her throat, percolating acridly.

  
Her mind cleared with the rush of a single thought: Dr.Watson was next.

  
Suddenly, the trembling froze in her flesh. The fear sapped from her veins, replaced by a cold sense of stubborn anger. She wasn't afraid for herself—fuck her own health. She didn't give a damn about what happened to her—she just despised being so powerless. She couldn't do anything to help the others before—she could do something now.

  
With a deep breath, Alexis stood. Her limbs solidified beneath her as she stepped around the corner and flicked the safety of the gun, raising the weapon with quivering hands.

  
* * * *

  
Scott spun around sharply at the sound, his face flaring in panic. His gaze locked onto hers, incredulous at first; his mouth contorted into an ugly grimace of surprise. He took a menacing step towards her, his large frame stumbling gently in her direction. Suddenly, the weapon felt hot in her hands; even with the barrel aimed towards his chest, Alexis wasn't sure she could actually shoot the man. Panicked, Alexis's eyes flickered to the computer station, and with a swift motion, she lifted the gun towards the desk and squeezed the trigger. The pistol jumped in her hands, the force kicking violent in her palms as she barely managed to hold on to the firearm. The crack spliced through her eardrums; she had forgotten how loud gunshots were. She tightened her arms and pulled the trigger again, bracing her jaw for the kickback as she shot another round into the computer. The bullet pierced the plastic with a spark, tearing vicious holes into the monitor before blossoming into craters in the hard-drive. The red recording light fizzled and died sharply as the computer whirred with its last breath of life.

  
Scott roared in outrage and lunged towards the desk, hands outstretched to the shell of computer. Gigabytes of precious data drained with every spark; months of work bled from the plastic framework. Scott seemed to forgo his intruder, instead running desperately to his desk in an attempt to salvage his savaged computer. Alexis had hoped to distract him, but she hadn't expected him to rush with such painful reverence to the damaged laptop; the fervor in his face cast dark lines in his usually genteel expression. The weapon dropped to her hip as Alexis snapped from her surprise, sprinting to the table that held a wide-eyed Dr.Watson. The creases in his cheeks had hardened from fear, although his stare still gleamed with the circuits of a soldier ready to fight for survival. Her fingers bent to curl under the plastic bonds, attempting to undo the clasps of his restraints. Red indents clawed into the flesh of her knuckles as the restraints resisted her desperate movements. She shoved the gun onto the table beside Dr.Watson in order to use both of her hands, but not before she dug her hand into her pocket and retrieved her phone, slamming the device onto the table after pressing a sequence of keys. The tone sounded thinly through the small speaker as she returned to grappling with the doctor's bonds, ringing twice before a click welcomed an annoyed grumble on the other end of the line. “What?”

  
“Sherlock?” Dr.Watson's voice was gruff, tense as it rose in his throat.

  
“John?” Sherlock paused, hesitant at the sound of his flatmate's voice. He remained silent for a few moments, listening to the unfamiliar noises in the background. “John, what's going on?”

  
Alexis's hands burned from the effort; something was close to breaking, although she wasn't certain whether it was the restraints or the tendons in her fingers. She growled in frustration, struggling to keep herself calm. “Sherlock, we could really use you down here,” she barked at the phone, her voice trembling much more than she expected. The quiver in her throat felt traitorous.

  
Sherlock's exhale crackled through the speaker. “What could possibly—”

  
“Sherlock, GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE!” Alexis's voice cracked suddenly, unable to bite back the rising anxiety in her sternum. The outburst reverberated throughout the room, rippling through her teeth with an unmistakable saturated fear. Sherlock must have picked up on her panic, because the next time he spoke, his voice was low and sharp.

  
“Where are you?”

  
Before she could answer, a furious roar from behind her cast heat on her spine. The computer had evidently been deemed a lost cause, and she could smell his rage like smoke off of his skin. Alexis felt her blood chill as she turned to see Scott snarling, his broad body barreling towards her. She lifted a shaking hand to grasp for the gun, but Scott's heavy frame moved too lithely; he stormed towards her with his thick arm outstretched, fingers arcing like claws. He grabbed her by the hair close to her scalp and yanked her back roughly from the table, her feet dragging on the carpet behind her. At this close distance, the man's monstrous strength radiated through the coarse fabric of his clothes; the scent of bloodlust wafted from his pores. Through the piercing pain on the top of her skull, Alexis vaguely heard Dr.Watson's rough protests barely eclipsing Sherlock's tinny voice through the speakers, both raised in a pitch of panic. With a shallow breath, Alexis managed to catch her footing on the floor for a brief moment, gripping the enormous hand that clutched her tresses with eye-watering force for support. She dug her brittle fingernails into the flesh of his hand, struggling to pull away her body. His anger eclipsed his discomfort, his grip unrelenting. Gritting her teeth, Alexis lifted her leg and slammed it back with all the force she could muster, her heel colliding with the side of his knee.  
She heard a crack as his leg bent sideways under the pressure, and with a howl Scott collapsed, throwing Alexis into the desk behind him. The toss has been absentminded, but his strength hurled her like a doll across the carpet. Her body hit the metal edge of the desk, knocking the air from her torso as she fell to the ground painfully. Her sight popped with dizzy color as she lay on the musky floor, barely able to lift her face. She heard Dr.Watson scuttle on the table, desperately trying to loosen his restraints. Gingerly, Alexis turned her head towards the sound, her vision still blurred through aching eyes. Scott's giant form was still hunched on the floor, emitting muffled moans. With a fierce growl, Scott stumbled shakily to his feet, his wounded leg poised crookedly beneath him. He didn't turn to face her; instead, he remained fixated on the bound doctor with increased fervor. His fingers fluttered around a narrow object in his palm, which gleamed as the light hit it. Even through her disoriented vision, Alexis recognize it instantly as a syringe. Her head began to settle, quaking limbs solidifying beneath her body as Scott gripped his needle intently. Clutching the syringe in a tight fist, he began to limp towards Dr.Watson, who squirmed harder against the table with a shout.

  
Alexis never lifted her eyes from the sight of Scott's hand poised over Dr.Watson like a scorpion tail, but the chaos of sounds that erupted didn't escape her ears. As Scott moved to pierce Dr. Watson with his needle, Alexis scooped her feet beneath her and propelled herself forward as a muffled uproar of footsteps pounded up the stairwell, rumbling through the plaster walls. Scott placed a heavy hand on the doctor's chest to keep the man still, raising the syringe in his other hand at a methodical angle. Alexis sprinted and collided into the side of Scott's body as he struck with the needle, slamming into his hip above his wounded leg. Scott tumbled with a thrust of the shoulder as Alexis felt her body twist against the table in a tangle of limbs, the crushing weight of Scott's muscular arm pinning her against Dr.Watson's legs. She felt her flesh bruise in many places at once—the doctor's knees digging into the apex of her back, the harsh edge of the table pinching the tendons of her limbs, Scott's weight pressing into her chest, and a small biting pain in the top of her shoulder which she couldn't yet see. From the other side of the flat, the front door crashed in with shards of shrapnel coating the floor. The bellow of several bodies poured into the flat, their words incoherent as they clashed against each other. Several darkly-dressed men swarmed into the living room with guns raised in front of their chests. They moved in a rehearsed, militaristic formation as they filled the room; immediately, two of them leapt behind Scott and pried him off of her, slamming him to the carpet. Alexis and Dr.Watson watched frantically as the squadron surrounded them before a winded Sherlock and equally disgruntled Mycroft stepped into the room, Sherlock still holding the phone to his ear.

  
“Are we late?” Mycroft mused, glancing around the room with clear discontent. Alexis slid off of Dr.Watson, her feet weakly hitting the floor as she gripped the table for support. Sherlock pocketed his phone as he rushed forward, swiping a scalpel off of the desk before reaching John's side to slice through his restraints. John grimaced as Sherlock cut off of his wrists free, rubbing the raw skin tenderly.

  
“A few minutes ago would have been nice.”

  
“I had to grab some friends on the way here. They're a bit better equipped than myself.” Mycroft lowered his eyes briefly to Scott, whose protests began to choke and fade after one of the men stuck a syringe into his neck. The drug immediately clouded Scott's eyes as his head fell obediently to the carpet.  
“And how did you know we were here?”

  
Mycroft nodded to Alexis. “Sherlock seemed to think something was amiss, and contacted me to trace her phone. We followed the signal to this flat.”

  
Alexis glared at Sherlock. “Then why even ask over the phone?” she demanded hoarsely.

  
Sherlock snipped one of John's ankle restraints without lifting his eyes. “I was trying to keep you talking,” he replied lowly.

  
“I would have been talking a lot more, had you picked up the phone one of the hundred times I called you before.”

  
“Hardly a hundred, don't exaggerate. Besides, I was busy hounding my brother at that point, seeing how you had thrown yourself into a dangerous situation. I figured a call from John's phone either meant things had resolved, or—more likely—things had gotten much worse.” He glanced to John. “Are you all right?”

  
“Fine, though I've been better.” John sighed as Sherlock sliced the other ankle restraint, the sound sharp in his ears. He looked begrudgingly over to the canine corpse on the other table. “Better than most, anyway.”

  
Sherlock looked to Alexis, still catching his breath from the rush inside. “And you?”

  
Alexis nodded reluctantly, still struggling to calm the shaking in her legs. Sherlock slid around the corner of the table to reach John's last bound limb, and Alexis gingerly stepped out of his way. Her pride seared slightly at the dismissive attitude the detective seemed to have towards her attempts to help, but it wasn't worth defending. Her heels dragged across the carpet as her legs suddenly felt leaden, her bones aching from the effort she had exerted. She grasped at the base of her neck her where the small sharp pain still bit into her shoulder, her fingertips colliding with something smooth and cold. She winced as the empty syringe fell to the carpet, the needle stinging one last time before dropping hollowly to the floor. The sound was muffled, but it felt deafening to Alexis as she turned stiffly to see the needle gleam mockingly against the putrid fabric. The ache had already begun to consolidate where the needle had pierced her, taking root in the muscle. She held her fingers to the wound, but it would do little good—the familiar heavy weight in the pit of her lungs was already sinking in her chest, curdling in her diaphragm in preparation of what came next.

  
“I see you've managed to cause enough damage on your own,” Mycroft mused, stepping carefully on the carpet with a sneer of distaste as the material brushed his shoes. “Apparently you've picked up on my brother's cues of trying to be the hero, Ms.Messek.”

  
“Don't be stupid, Mycroft, this had nothing to do with me,” Sherlock growled, cutting John's last tie with a satisfactory crack. John gratefully flexed his freed limbs while turning on the table to stretch his body.

  
“Maybe not directly, but if these are the coping methods you're teaching her to handle her situation...”

  
“I didn't teach her anything. I don't have the patience to teach, you know that.”

  
“You don't have to be modest, Sherlock, it's a pattern in your household. I suppose you put a girl like her with in a flat with a high-strung detective and an adrenaline junkie of a soldier, and these consequences are bound to occur.”

  
“Why do you care so much about this?” Sherlock quipped irritatedly, standing upright with squared shoulders.

  
“The same reason you do,” Mycroft replied coldly. “The girl is under my protection, and so it irks me to find her wound into compromising scenarios such as this.”

John suddenly stiffened. “Sherlock...”

  
“Hang on, John.” Sherlock glared fiercely at the elder Holmes. “You're being awfully condescending for someone who loves it when other people do the footwork. When did you get such a judgmental change of heart?”

  
“Around the same time that my charge became involved with a terrorist,” Mycroft snapped back.

  
“If she hadn't, John might not have survived.”

  
Mycroft paused, frown hardening. “Perhaps not.”

  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously. “You aren't even concerned—”

  
“I am _concerned_ with keeping her under a low profile, Sherlock,” Mycroft spat heatedly. “That happens to be my job.”

  
“The guardian of Britain, tasked with playing nanny?” Sherlock snarled. His angled face darkened. “Why?”

  
“Sherlock!”

  
The detective turned to John's urging impatiently. He opened his mouth to demand the reason for such an earnest interruption, but the worrisome expression of his flatmate's face caused Sherlock to pause. John wasn't looking at him—the doctor's eyes were trained on something straight past the detective's arm. Sherlock turned hurriedly to see a glassy-eyed Alexis collapse weakly onto one knee, still clutching her shoulder with a fearsome grip as her hunched form slunk to the floor.

  
She heard the creaks of the table as Dr. Watson scrambled to reach her; she even heard Sherlock anxiously speak her name as her limbs withered beneath her from the ache that had spread from the curve of her neck to her lower abdomen. Her body curled into her stomach as she wrapped her arms around her waist, slowly lowering her forehead to the rough carpet to hide her face. Warm hands grazed her spine, but the voices were fading as the poison pumped through the blood in her ears with her heavy pulse. The wound from the needle seared, the pain snaking through her skeleton down the contour of her vertebrae. She tried to focus on breathing, anything to distract from the deep ache that began to fracture through her tendons. The slow build-up taunted her with its relentless swell; even if she tried to quell her heartbeat, the fear flushed through her veins with the all too familiar feeling of dread. Her teeth ground as she drew her head towards her hips, fingers digging into her sides as she began to shake.

  
John knelt beside her as he placed a gentle hand on her back, eyes sharp as he examined her. “She's hard as a rock,” he breathed lowly, carefully raising his hand to press lightly on her throat. “And her pulse's skyrocketed.” His stout form moved with purpose now, a demanding presence that immediately claimed control of the room. He felt something strike his heel as he repositioned his leg, which caused him to crane his back to see the offending object. The damaged syringe crackled under the weight of his sole, the hollow fang of glass plunged into the shallow carpet. “Shit...”

  
Sherlock watched his flatmate with an uneasy expression, holding his arms at an unsure angle next to his body. “What is it...?”

  
“He stuck her.” John's voice was quick and harsh, biting tersely through his words as he turned back to his patient. Hair had fallen in a veil around her head, the tresses barely hiding her face now contorted in pain. Judging by the increasing rigidity of her breathing, it was getting worse, and John wasn't sure how much longer it could last. “Alexis, can you hear me?” he urged, voice lowering gently as he bent to better view her face. He pressed a hand against her shoulder. “Alexis, stay with me now, stay with me...”

  
Her entire body suddenly heaved, prompting John to quickly press her onto her side and angle her towards him. Her abdomen contracted forcefully as she retched, her legs kicking out behind her as her chest whipped forward and wrapped her body in an arc around the doctor's knees. A mouthful of bile spewed off of her tongue across the carpet, stained with a worrisome shade of scarlet. Her eyes flashed open briefly, wide and frantic as her lips quivered through long strands of acrid saliva. She gasped for a ragged throatful of air that rattled in her swollen ribcage before her fingers dug hungrily into the carpet. Her body arched into a violent spasm, whipping her stiffened frame against the floor. John gripped her knees as they swung fiercely towards his legs, still attempting to hold her shoulder lightly with his other hand. The girl writhed beneath him, fractured whimpers quivering in her sternum.

  
He could feel the heat of her skin through her clothing as she trembled through muscles that had hardened like an exoskeleton, brutally squeezing the bones beneath them. Careful not to restrain her movements, John attempted to keep her on her side as traces of vomit still drained from her lips. He grabbed her wrist and held his fingers against the tender flesh, his eyes narrowing as he monitored her pulse—at this point, it was all he could do. “Call an ambulance,” John barked over his shoulder, the command barely audible over the girl's moans. He turned back to her sharply. “Alexis, I need you to stay with me now, hold on for me...”

  
Sherlock moved to extract his phone, but one of Mycroft's men gripped his wrist, eliciting a dangerous glare from the detective. “Let one of us do it,” the man ordered quickly. “We'll get a faster response than a civilian.”

  
“Using our powers for good, now, are we?” Sherlock coldly pulled away his arm.

  
“Just doing our job, sir.”

  
“Well, pardon my skepticism, but I don't see your phones out.”

  
The man opened his mouth to retort, but a shriek from across the room interrupted him. Both men turned to see John hunched over Alexis, still struggling to keep her steady without holding her down and hurting her more. The whimpers in her chest cracked as she gulped for air, crescendoing into raw, splitting screams. The sound crashed against the walls, filling the room with the agonizing cries that tore through her throat. Her head hammered against the floor with every excruciating convulsion. John felt her tremor beneath his touch with every brutal scream that ripped through her tender esophagus, piercing through his ribs with their bloodied echoes. His hand tightened around her shoulder as he swallowed, averting his eyes to focus on anything but her agonized face. He couldn't block out the screams, as much as he wanted to; every tortured wail greedily overwhelmed the room.

  
With a guttural gasp, Alexis suddenly stiffened, the bruising convulsions dying to a feverous tremble. Her spine curled on the carpet, pressing into her shoulders until her ribs hovered above the floor. Even while granting a reprieve from the horrid screams, the silence seemed equally daunting as she swallowed a shaky inhale. Her eyes snapped open, glazed with a sheen of gray as her body slowly settled back into the floor. The trembling in her limbs began to slacken, her skin cooling beneath John's touch as he gripped her wrist earnestly. Her eyelids lowered and draped halfway across her irises as her breathing calmed; she began to respire shallowly, her chest fluttering with the small motion. John watched her carefully with an urgent stare.

  
“She's alive, I take it?”

  
Mycroft's voice was low with only a hint of his usual joviality as he broke the silence. John lifted a steely glare in the elder Holmes' direction. “For now, yes. She could still have it in her system, and she could go into shock at any moment, if she's not already.”

  
“But she's breathing?”

  
“Seems to be.”

  
“And her pulse?”

  
John paused to check. “Still high, but settling.”

  
“That's good enough for me.” Mycroft sighed, prompting two of his men to sweep forward and seize John by his elbows to pull him away from Alexis. John swore in protest as his feet dragged on the carpet, struggling against the men's hold. Another one of Mycroft's men circled Alexis before gingerly lifting her limp body into his arms, one arm cradling her shoulders while the other hand anchored underneath her knees. Her limbs hung listlessly in the air, languid as a rag doll in the man's grasp. John's objections fell deafly on the man's ears as he turned to Mycroft obediently. “You go on ahead of us,” Mycroft ordered with a swift nod. “We'll follow behind while those two remain to look after Mr. Scott.”

  
The man returned the nod, stepping hastily across the flat with a tight grip on Alexis. His shadowed form slipped through the door with the girl pressed to his chest and disappeared down the stairwell. The other two men released John's arms, who pulled away indignantly. “What's the meaning of this?” Sherlock demanded, his tall frame rigid beneath his heavy coat.

  
Mycroft's dark eyes landed on them, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Take a ride with me, gentlemen.”

  
* * * *  
The door to 221B Baker Street was already ajar when Mycroft's car came to a smooth stop by the sidewalk. The flat's residents sat stiffly next to a relatively relaxed Mycroft, glaring out of the tinted windows. “What are we doing here?” John barked sharply.

  
Mycroft gestured to the flat patiently. “My agent is here. I did promise we'd follow them.”

  
“He brought her here?”

  
Mycroft's facial expression was all the answer the doctor needed. John shoved open the car door with an angry growl, piling out of the vehicle with Sherlock following on his heels. His feet slammed against the pavement as he reached the front step and barreled through the heavy jade door, the warm stale air of the flat slapping into his face as he resisted the urge to sprint up the stairwell. Upstairs, the light from the flat had been switched on haphazardly, the lukewarm-colored rays pouring through the crack of the door. The men's footsteps thundered through the old wood of the stairs; despite Sherlock's long strides, John managed to take the lead, moving unusually fast for his stout, muscular frame. The two barged into the flat and immediately turned to see Mycroft's agent placing the unconscious Alexis on the couch, her face twisted in discomfort.

  
“What in the bloody hell are you doing here?” John's voice was harsh as it echoed against the confines of the flat walls. His brow furrowed dangerously. “And how did you get in here, anyway?”

  
“Do you really think my men would be discouraged by something so menial as a locked door?” Mycroft strolled through the door lazily, a brow arched at the notion. He glanced to Alexis briefly, his mouth pulling into a half-frown as his eyes quickly analyzed her pained expression.

  
John's face hardened threateningly, barely able to hold his voice low as his fists clenched. “Your little games are endangering that girl's life.”

  
“On the contrary, I brought her here for her own benefit. She needs a safe place to sleep off the events of the morning, after all.”

  
“She needs a hospital!”

  
“There is nothing they can do for her there that cannot be provided for her here,” Mycroft snapped, pausing to retain his genteel demeanor. “Your concern is touching, but I'm afraid there are external factors at play that make Ms. Messek's privacy a priority at the moment.”

  
“Her privacy? She nearly died!”

  
“But she didn't, which means from now on, it's merely a matter of keeping her comfortable.” Mycroft turned to Sherlock with a calm expression. “Speaking of, I would advise you to assist with that. Perhaps you would have something to soothe the girl's pain when she awakens—it will be significant.”

  
Sherlock stiffened. “I'm clean, you know that.”

  
“Oh, please, brother mine. You may not use anymore, but you've kept something around, even if only for nostalgic reasons.”

  
Sherlock scowled hesitantly, eyes flickering nervously to the squirming girl on the couch. Her brow furrowed as consciousness slowly began to return. “You want us to give her illegal drugs?” John snapped.

  
Mycroft glared back. “Her nervous system has endured the equivalent of turbine blades raking through her body. Even when the poison is fully metabolized in her system, the damage done will take its own sweet time to heal. You could wait and allow it to pass naturally, but I would dare call that cruel.”

  
“If only there was a place devoted to healing bodily damage and administers those drugs safely...oh, wait.”

  
“The hospital won't be necessary, so I wouldn't suggest nagging the issue.”

  
“She needs medical treatment!”

  
“And to my knowledge, we are standing in the presence of a doctor, yes?”

  
“That's not the same!”

  
Alexis stirred, a heavy groan rattling behind her lips. Her legs curled closer to her body as her cheek buried into the cushion. Mycroft's eyes narrowed. “Sherlock, you're wasting time which that girl does not have. I would suggest you make a decision, and quickly.”

  
“You heard him, he's clean,” John spat. “He hasn't touched the stuff in months.”

  
“For God's sake, John, don't be so naïve.” Mycroft's drawl dripped with condescension. “He may not have used recently, but you can't honestly believe he doesn't have some hidden for a rainy day. I'm not going to tell on him, I merely think he should be a good boy and share his toys.”

  
“By toys I assume you're referring to opiates.”

  
“Well, I hardly think cocaine is going to do her any good, now, is it?”

  
A low moan hummed in Alexis' closed throat. Mycroft glanced to Sherlock expectantly, a single brow arching into the creases of his forehead. Through gritted teeth, Sherlock growled in defeat and swept past Mycroft down the hallway, bursting through his bedroom door in frustration with his coat tails flapping against his hamstrings. John stared icily at Mycroft, his eyes gleaming with violent anger that he constrained behind a tightly closed mouth. The elder Holmes' calm disposition scoured John's patience; it seemed too out of place. Mycroft turned to him politely in response, his mouth pursing slightly. “I'm trying to help her, you know,” he offered lightly.

  
John's darkened face remained unchanged. “I'm not so sure.”

  
Mycroft shrugged. “You're free to believe that. I certainly don't suffer for it.” He craned his neck to better see Alexis on the couch. “Although she might, if you don't tend her to rather soon. It would appear our sleeping beauty is waking up.”

  
John faced the couch to see Alexis contract her limbs into her body, her mouth parting to reveal rows of grimacing white teeth. Her eyes squeezed closed into feverous lines, her nose scrunched with harsh wrinkles. Her fingers curled as she withdrew them to her stomach, twisting to burrow her forehead into the cushion beneath her. In a few hasty steps, John reached and knelt in front of the couch, brushing an uneasy hand over her shoulder. “I thought the poison was out of her system already,” John commented brusquely.

  
“It still caused quite a shock to her system. You don't cause muscle contractions like that without some severe lactic acid build-up. That girl ran a marathon in five minutes; her body's going to react accordingly.”

  
“She might have tissue damage.” Alexis began to squirm beneath his grasp as her consciousness slowly returned behind tightly shut eyelids. “If every muscle contracted like that, she could've gone into cardiac arrest.” John sighed through his nose. “She doesn't belong here, she belongs in a hospital bed.”

  
“For now, we'll have to make do.” Mycroft turned as Sherlock came back into the room, clutching a glassy syringe in his right palm. He had shrugged off his coat and coat in the other room, baring his throat above the top buttons of his shirt. His sharp eyes examined the syringe time and time again, reevaluating the liquid that filled the innocent vial. “You've accounted for the different body composition, I presume?”

  
Sherlock glanced up in annoyance. “Of course I did.”

  
“Assuming the metabolism of a twenty-two-year-old female, approximately 50 kilograms?”

  
“Don't patronize me, Mycroft. And it's forty-nine and a half kilograms, for the record.”

  
Mycroft smirked joylessly. “You're the expert.”

  
“Boys.” John's pressing voice interrupted the Holmes' argument as Alexis suddenly twisted onto her side, clutching at the cushion with a low hiss in the bottom of her throat. Her other hand desperately grasped at her stomach as her knees pulled into her waist. Her lips fluttered over her gnashing teeth, raspy grunts falling off of her tongue in short, percussive bursts.

  
“It's your decision, John.” Mycroft's voice dropped deeply in his chest, eyes challengingly fixated on the doctor. John's frown pulled tightly into his face before his nostrils flared in angry defeat. Sherlock reluctantly stepped forward with the syringe between his fingers, lowering to one knee next to his flatmate. In front of him, Alexis continued to writhe with her moans pulsating in her throat.

  
Sherlock raised his hand with his thumb perched over the syringe. He paused as John quickly turned his face, his eyes narrowing. “Let me do it,” he ordered, holding out his hand. Sherlock hesitated only slightly before placing the syringe in his flatmate's callused palm.

  
“What can I do?”

  
“Hold her still as best as you can.”

  
Sherlock slid onto the couch, maneuvering Alexis' legs to make room. He repositioned himself behind Alexis and wrapped his long arms around her shivering frame, raising her body to press her against his chest. He anchored one arm around her waist and used the other to hide her eyes in the crook of his elbow, securing her head with a firm hand on her scalp. John gripped her wrist, holding her arm out straight with considerable strength. Sherlock's brow furrowed gently.

  
“Are you sure about this?”

  
“I've done this before,” John snapped back, securing his hold around her arm, which quivered against his palm. Alexis whimpered into the bend of Sherlock's shoulder, muffled by the material of his shirt. The detective continued to hold her uncertainly, flickering his gaze hesitantly to the head of blonde hair buried against his collarbone. John squeezed a thumb into the curve of her elbow, watching the throbbing veins carefully. He exhaled slowly as he pressed the needle into vulnerable flesh, watching the liquid drain into her body. Her quivering nerves immediately winced and froze, her shaky breathe rattling through her lungs. Her chest finally released a long, restless exhale that sapped the rest of her strength from her muscles. Her form went lax against Sherlock, eyes half-open and glossed with a medicated calm. Sherlock lifted his eyes to meet John's stare, which had turned sternly to Sherlock. “Are you positive that you got that dosage right?”

  
Sherlock glared back. “I've done this before,” he replied thinly.

  
John released her arm slowly, noting the aggregation of bruises that marked her skin near her fresh puncture wound. “They're needle-marks,” he muttered grimly. “She struggled.”

  
“Finally piecing her story together?” Mycroft leaned onto his cane, fingers drumming on the handle. Sherlock raised his glare to meet his brother.

  
“You knew.”

  
“Of course I knew. I know everything.” Mycroft sniffed. “Surely, even you suspected it.”

  
“Naturally.”

  
“Why didn't you bother to tell us?” John growled as he stood to his feet, still gripping the syringe.

  
Mycroft glanced to him with an innocuous face. “I figured she'd tell you. I didn't think you'd all be so cynical as to doubt her.”

  
“And how much do you know about what happened to her?”

  
Mycroft's lips dropped slightly. “I know she was on the ship when the Sayanara was intercepted. I know she, with the rest of her crew, was used for research on the effects of Project Elijah, a poison designed for biological warfare. I know she survived, while the others....well, their bodies have yet to be found.” His head tilted thoughtfully. “What I couldn't tell you, at least not yet, was how she survived, or how she escaped. Unfortunately, both of those have made her an unfortunate target of interest.”

  
“And it's your job to protect her, is that it?”

  
“Your skepticism is wounding, John. Really, I'm hurt.”

  
The expression on John's face remained unwavering, eliciting an bemused sigh from the elder Holmes. “I'll admit, there are rather selfish reasons for me to look after her well-being. She holds the key to developing an antidote to the substance in question, which is why she's a rather precious commodity to the individual perpetuating Project Elijah. If he discovers her, he'll hunt her down.”

  
Sherlock eased Alexis back onto the couch, who was breathing softly. If she was awake, she wasn't responsive; her eyes stared aimlessly in front of her. “And you're worried about him?” the detective mused lowly, gently laying the girl's legs on the cushion behind him.

  
“He's orchestrated this whole operation right under our noses, and we've yet to find anything to tie it back to him. Ms. Messek is the closest thing we have, although she's hardly a stable witness, at the moment.”

  
Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally. “There aren't many people alive that can do that with you as the country's watchdog.”

  
“There's only one, in fact. And he has his nose in the air for the scent of his favorite lab rat.” Mycroft glanced to the unconscious girl on the couch emotionlessly. “Perhaps it was a risk to leave her with you, given your history, but if anyone knows the way he thinks, it's you.”

  
John folded his arms. “Moriarty,” he spat indignantly. A moment of silence caused him to shift his weight on his feet. “James Moriarty is behind this, and you couldn't attach a note to her collar to let us know?”

  
“Bitterness doesn't suit you, John. And it certainly doesn't help her.”

  
“Then what will? What in the hell are we supposed to do?”

  
“You've never displayed any hesitance to challenge him before, what's changed now?”

  
John paused, shaking his head. “Well, nothing, but—”

  
“I hardly see the problem, then. No one's asking you to confront him on what happened to the Sayanara. All we need from you is to keep her happy and comfortable in all the domesticities of a cozy flat, until new developments arise that either make her useful, or render her unneeded in the scheme of things.” He gazed on her expressionless face with the first hint of somberness he had displayed since entering the flat. “For her sake, let's hope it's the latter.”


	8. Misbehavior

“Sherlock, if I find another pill slipped into my food, I'm gonna find a less comfortable place for the bottle.”

Sherlock frowned disapprovingly with a small sniff of his nose. He was hunched over the table in the kitchen, poised over a medley of glassware with a thick apron tied around his lean waist. His face slackened in an innocent expression, feigning to be hurt by the accusation. Alexis sat at the couch, staring back to the detective across the room without so much as a glance to the plate on her lap. Sherlock held the gaze or a few more moments before dropping the act in defeat with a sigh. “It's just a light dose of acetaminophen, hardly any reason to react so violently.”

“You're drugging me with Tylenol. I'm not a dog that you can hide pills in cheese to make me take my medicine. At some point, I will actually overdose on this stuff, y'know.”

“It was the strongest drug John would approve of me to use,” Sherlock snipped bitterly. “I would have opted for something stronger, but he was rather firmly against it.”

“Well, thank God for Dr. Watson.”

Sherlock scowled. “You don't have to act so skeptical, you know. It all would've been to alleviate your pain, which you're clearly still having, judging by your rather brusque commentary so far this morning.”

Alexis paused, her mouth tightening. It had been two days since she had suffered through the poison; the day after had been a blur, and she had awoken this morning with a hazy mind and a stiff body. The aches were still persistent in her bones every couple of hours, hence Dr. Watson's stern instructions for Sherlock to remain in the flat with her while the doctor went to work for the morning. Maybe it was prompting her to lash out a little harshly; after all, Sherlock may not have appeared thrilled to be on babysitting duty, but he had agreed to it, and was trying to help in his own way. Her eyes dropped softly. “Sorry.”

“Don't be.” Sherlock had already turned back to his experiment on the table, a foul-smelling concoction that involved strong clear chemicals and the ginger touch of a flamethrower at one point. Alexis has been loath to ask what it was. “I would be far less gracious in your position. Considering the events of these past few days, your idle threats are practically polite.”

“They're only idle because you're still holding the flamethrower,” Alexis murmured, half a smirk pulling at her lips. Sherlock turned thoughtfully to the contents on the table, scratching at a curl of hair that had fallen out from beneath the goggles currently shoved onto his scalp.

“I'd be more concerned about the acids, personally, but to each their own.”

“Is that the same dishware you used to make these eggs?”

“It seems kind of silly to not use things more than once.”

“Do you usually cook food and experiments one after the other like that?”

“Contrary to John's testament, I do in fact know to clean things. One of those happens to be dishes.”

Alexis gave a wary glance to her plate. “See, this is why I offered to just cook myself. It's seems unfair to put that on you, anyway.”

“ _You_ are supposed to be resting. I've been tasked with keeping you as sedentary as possible.”

“And you agreed to that?”

“My agreement in the matter wasn't really relevant.”

“Gotcha.” She brought a forkful of eggs to her mouth and chewed slowly. Nothing viciously scalded the inside of her cheeks, so there must have been some truth to Sherlock's assurances. It was good to know that his background in chemistry didn't go to waste when it came to culinary efforts. “So you're stuck with me all day?”

Sherlock readjusted the goggles on his forehead, curling his long fingers around the edge of the lenses. “Suppose so,” he replied, tentatively picking up a beaker. “Is that a problem?”

Alexis shook her head after taking another bite of food, although Sherlock hadn't even turned his head to see her response. He seemed disinterested as he placed the beaker gently back on the table. “Besides,” he continued, “at least I got you on a day when you're more lively. It was John's turn yesterday, and all you did was sleep.”

“I'm not sure you could classify that level of unconsciousness as 'sleep',” Alexis responded lightly, sitting back into the couch.

“You needed it. You were recovering.”

Alexis raised an eyebrow. “You drugged the hell out of me, didn't you?”

“Oooh, yes. To be fair, John said it was okay.”

“I'm sure he did.” Alexis tilted her chin towards the kitchen as Sherlock's phone rattled against the wooden surface of the table. She saw his eyes dart to the screen as he gently angled the phone towards him. He hovered his fingers over the keys before he placed it down on the table again, turning away from the message with steely eyes. Alexis knew that look; the clockwork behind his eyes practically creaked as it churned in his head. She turned casually back to her plate. “What's Inspector Lestrade up to so early?”

Sherlock blinked, his brow furrowing as he looked to her out of the corner of his eye. “How did you know it was Lestrade?”

“Your expression made it pretty clear. Annoyance, resignation, and I practically saw your eyes dilate.” She glanced up at him and repressed a bemused smirk at his disbelieving face. “Okay, lucky guess.”

He grunted in approval as he turned back to his beakers. “Apparently there's something he wants to show me down at the Yard. Always such the drama queen, trying to get me to run across town for him.”

Alexis scraped at the last bits of egg absentmindedly with her fork, her eyes still flickering to his disinterested face. A few moments passed by in silence as she looked to him expectantly. “Are you going to go see him?” she asked finally.

Sherlock continued to gaze eagerly into his brewing beakers. “That seems a little pointless, seeing how neither you nor I can go gallivanting around London.”

“But you want to go, yes?”

Sherlock glanced to her with a raised eyebrow. “And what makes you say that?”

“Well, it could be about a case, right? I'm sure cooking and strong acids are fun hobbies for you, you always jump at the possibility of a case.”

“You make me sound so indiscriminate. Don't make me out to be so generous, I only pursue cases worth my time.”

“And is Inspector Lestrade's offer worth your time?”

Sherlock paused uncomfortably. “Perhaps,” he noted, leaning his long body over the table again. His shirt stretched over the lean lines of his back.

“Then shouldn't you go?”

“That seems rather pointless, considering that there's no way I'm leaving you here alone.”

“Then take me with you.”

Sherlock released a thin sigh through his nose. “You don't follow instructions well, do you?”

_Oh, like you do either_ , Alexis thought to herself. “There's no reason that you should be pent up here on my account. An hour outside would do both of us some good.”

Sherlock straightened, settling his hands onto his narrow hips. He looked over to her with skeptical eyes. “You want me to drag you along?”

“You won't have to  _drag_ anybody, I want to go along. I can walk on my own.”

“Your legs still shake when you try to stand. No.”

“My legs are fine, they just need to stretch.”

“This is not something you properly recover from in a day or two. You cannot tell me that you aren't exhausted and in pain.”

“I'm also hopped up on Tylenol, and bored out of my mind. Do you  _really_ wanna stare at the walls of the flat all day?”

Sherlock hesitated. He hadn't exactly been overjoyed with John's instructions to remain in the flat with their guest, but the doctor knew more about helping people than the detective did. Sherlock dealt with death; the people he helped were often already cold. He didn't have much of a stomach for living victims—they were often irrational, whiny, and altogether boring on their own. He could manipulate their emotions, sure, in the same way that he could manipulate a microscope. People could be fine-tuned to show what he wanted to see; it didn't mean that Sherlock meant to help them. That was John's forte. John was the one who managed what Sherlock was half-tempted to call miracles—he was the one who could interpret the fickle motivations of people, who could navigate their finicky emotions with such ease. John read the people, Sherlock read the cases. This girl didn't need to be solved—not yet. Any attempts to dissect her case now could cause her to crumble under his prying fingertips. She needed a careful approach, a thoughtful approach, a heartfelt approach; John's approach. It was a rare feeling, but Sherlock felt fairly inadequate in attempting any mimicry of that. Perhaps it was a bit better to trust John's judgement on this. “Can't you just watch crap telly like a normal person?”

“C'mon, Sherlock, I can't just lay on this couch all day. That only makes it worse. I need a distraction—just an hour out in the real world, not just watching it on a screen.”

Sherlock scowled in her direction. “You were a lot less stubborn before you started talking.”

A stab of guilt stung through Alexis's chest. The annoyance in Sherlock's voice shouldn't have surprised her—it was hardly a rare occurrence—but it still made her sit a little lower in the cushions. The last thing she wanted to be was a nuisance—he was taking care of her, after all, and he wasn't exactly what most would call a nurturing soul. She heard a groan reverberate in the kitchen.

“Oh, don't give me the sad face. I can't stand the wounded act.”

“I'm not  _giving you_ a sad face. This is my face.” She pressed her shoulders into the couch, placing her plate next to her legs. “Your opinion on it is your business.”

“No, I know that look. John gives it to me all the time when he's disappointed.”

“It's okay, you're just doing what you're supposed to.” She tucked her legs under her lap, settling into the couch in a more comfortable position. She gave a small smile. “I'd imagine it's hard to go against Dr. Watson's orders when he gets serious about things. His soldier side must come out every once in a while.”

Alexis practically heard him bristle in the next room. “John doesn't give me  _orders_ ,” he snapped.

Alexis chuckled. “You're very receptive to his suggestions, then.” When she raised her eyes to the kitchen, the look on his face made her bark a gentle laugh. “Now who's pouting?”

Sherlock angled his face away to shield his stark frown. “I'm not  _pouting_ ,” he snapped back.

“Right, I'm sure you just had a speck of indignation on your face.” Alexis mimicked swiping at the corner of her lips with her thumb. “Try again, I don't think you got it all.”

The half-lidded glare that Sherlock shot in her direction would have almost scared her had it not so amusing. “I'm starting to regret agreeing to this.”

Alexis's mouth tightened at the remark. He might have meant it humorously, but it yet another striking reminder that her sarcasm may not be warranted here, let alone appreciated. It felt good to release some of her inner commentary now and then, but she didn't strive to be a pain in this man's lean side. She sighed defeatedly as she sunk against the side of the couch. “All right, all right, you win. I'll be good.” Her mouth pulled into a half-smile, but her eyes were softened apologetically as her gaze fell to the floor. “I just hate being pent up, is all...I know you can't stand it. I'm not exactly thrilled about being the leash around your neck, either.”

Sherlock glanced to her in silence, tapping the lip of his beaker delicately with a thoughtful fingertip. It would be smart to follow John's instructions here, but Sherlock still hesitated, perhaps partially out of pride. He knew what it was like to need a dash of adrenaline, even if just as a distraction, and God know the girl had plenty from which she'd crave a distraction of some kind...hell, any kind. It was probably why she didn't seem to mind his company as much as other strangers did. Others found him odd, at best; she practically found his grating personality to be a relief. For some reason, Sherlock didn't seem to mind that, and that alone slightly irritated him. He gripped the edge of the table reluctantly, leaning his body weight onto the structure as he hunched his shoulders to his ears in a stretch. He wasn't one for sympathy, so why the hell was he drawing parallels between his situation and hers? It wasn't his job to coddle her, and it wasn't his nature to tend to anyone. Empathy wasn't an advantage. Still, it was nice to have another face that looked appreciative of his deductions rather than disgusted, and admittedly, it was nice to have another person who didn't seem to mind breathing the same air as him. Inexplicably, that pool of the population was few and far between.

Alexis barely had time to register Sherlock's footsteps across the carpet before a wave of fabric enveloped her face. She pulled the fabric down from her head, gripping the coat that Sherlock had thrown into her lap. He was already shrugging on his own lengthy jacket over his shoulders, yanking the apron off of his waist and over his curls with one hand. “Come on, let's go.”

She glanced up, surprised. “But you said—”

“Lestrade needs me, and it's rude to leave him helpless, now, isn't it?” Sherlock raised a warning manicured finger. “We do  _not_ tell John about this.”

Alexis slid her arms into the fabric of her jacket, attempting to bite back her excitement under Sherlock's stern gaze. She kept her teeth clenched tightly together as she gave a quick affirmative nod. The motion was rendered pointless, as Sherlock had turned his eyes away from her, fastening his own coat hastily. He removed the goggles from his head and threw them onto the couch, where they bounced until they slid and stuck in the divet between the cushions. She knew it was probably better to keep her mouth shut, but the unreadable expression on the man's face made her pause. “What made you change your mind?”

He readjusted his coat collar as he turned to her. “You're no fun when you get all surly. Besides, the last time someone sat around bored in this flat, he put bullets in the wall.” The corners of his lips twitched into a smirk. “Which one do you think will get me into more trouble—taking you out for an hour, or putting more holes in the wallpaper?”

* * * *

She had never been so excited for a car ride. She had expected Sherlock to cave and retract his offer, and didn't breathe a sigh of relief until they had both slipped into the taxi cab. Even though she tried to disguise it, Sherlock had to know; the sharp smirk never left his long smug face. Hell, she practically submitted to the urge to put the window down.  _I am really am the adopted stray,_ she mused with a tinge of bitterness. Her lips pulled tightly into an instinctive smile at the thought of Mycroft tossing an engraved collar at her. Honestly, it would only slightly surprise her at this point. She forced her hands into press into her thighs, her stare tightly fixated out the window. Sherlock's stare heated the side of her face occasionally.

“Something amusing?”

Alexis shook her head stiffly, although the grin still tugged at her mouth. “Just some thoughts,” she replied dismissively.

“Oh, you have those too? I'm so used to being around people who act otherwise.”

She angled her face towards him. “We can't all have such pristine hardware for brains, now, can we?”

“They could at least put in some effort.”

“You might find yourself out of a job if that happened.”

“I doubt it.” God, were those teeth that flashed in his smile? That was rare. The display of enamel was brief, but he could barely contain himself. “Even their most  _insightful_ attempts are like looking into the mind of a goldfish.”

“Ah, well, I won't bore you with my goldfish thoughts then.” Alexis turned back to the glass without a hint of ire, catching a glimpse of her reflection. The image that greeted her eyes still surprised her; two decades of seeing this face, and it had never seemed more unfamiliar. Her cheeks had sunken into the bones of her face, and her thin lips were still chapped on the edges. Even the way her hair fell against her scalp felt like a forced mimicry; the only thing she truly recognized was her eyes. Those jade irises still stared into space with the same bright naivety that gave all of her emotions away in an instant. It wasn't her proudest feature, but it was something.

“You don't bore me.”

Her eyebrow arched as she lifted her chin, catching his eye in the reflection of her window. “Sherlock Holmes, don't you dare to lie to me.”

“I wouldn't do anything so foolish.” His mouth pulled into that infamous half-grin, crinkling his nose. “You're a little too much trouble to be considered dull.”

Alexis chuckled. “I do my part. Dr.Watson gives me tips.”

“I knew it.”

“And of course, I learn by observation. You provide plenty of material in that regard.”

“My personality is one of my most distinguished features. I'll take that as a compliment.” Alexis's muffled laughter was her only response. The soft syllables fluttered in her esophagus as warm air percussively filled her throat. His mouth dropped slightly at the reaction as his head tilted to face her more clearly. “I'm confused, why is that so amusing?”

“Oh, did I manage to confuse the great and powerful consulting detective?” Alexis's lips pulled back from her teeth in a fierce grin which she attempted to shield by resting her elbow on the windowsill and leaning into the palm of her hand. “And here I thought I was a mere mortal.”

“Don't get so cocky about it. Many things confuse me. Mostly people and their inexplicable need to pursue the most mundane things in the most contradictory ways.”

The tinge of bitterness in his voice was thinly veiled, although the mischief in face warmed the sarcasm a bit. He had a tendency to do that when he was alone with her; there was almost a sense of pride in how he could elicit such biting words from her mouth. She was so docile with the others, and then whenever he was around, he practically encouraged her to let such undignified things roll off her tongue. Here was a man that she had known less than a month, and he insisted on bantering like they had known each other for years. She had yet to discern if this was his touching attempt at helping her feel more at ease in an uncomfortable situation, or if he simply got entertainment value out of hurling such commentary in her direction and getting a rise out of her. Either way, she wasn't sure if she minded. It gave her something to do during the day.

“Yeah, well, people are idiots.”

Sherlock looked at her briefly with an indiscernible expression; she recognized that stubborn face. He was reading. “That's not what people usually say, you know.”

“I don't really give a damn what people say.” She glanced to him. “I'm sure you don't either.”

He paused. “And what would make you think that?”

“Oh, please, Sherlock. Someone as....well,  _dynamic_ as you doesn't let something as fickle as people's opinions change what you do.”

There was a moment of silence before Sherlock straightened his shoulders thoughtfully. “Then why not just come out and say it?”

Alexis' brow furrowed. “Say what?”

“Please, there's no need to sugarcoat it. They describe me in so many colorful ways.” His voice was calm and smooth in his innocent delivery, lifting his long fingers to count off a mental list. “Insensitive sod, heartless bastard, emotionless machine, the list goes on and on. I've counted forty seven different varieties, some of which contain language I'm not quite comfortable repeating in public. I identify as a sociopath, of course, albeit a highly-functioning one, but others prefer to shorten it to 'freak'; rolls off the tongue better, I guess.”

“For God's sake, Sherlock, I'm not calling you a freak,” Alexis snapped harshly. “Why in the hell would I even do that?”

The indignation in her voice made Sherlock hesitate, his face slackened in an innocuous expression that Alexis could almost mistake for surprise. “Well, I didn't want you to feel the incessant need to toe the line around the issue. The last thing I need is your sympathy.”

She bristled at the statement; perhaps her irritation was unwarranted, but for some reason that one statement raked across her nerves. “You think I feel sorry for you?” she spat heatedly.

Sherlock blinked slowly, lowering his hand gingerly. “Generally, people who attempt to play nice with me, as it were, are the ones who pity me and my supposed  _condition_ . I much prefer the angry insults.”

She looked for any trace of anger in his expression, and found nothing. He acted as if this were merely a common chore, and had resigned himself to the fact. Alexis sank back into her seat, her eyes narrowing disbelievingly. “So you think I'm being  _nice_ around you because I pity you?”

“It's a theory, yes.”

“Mister, you need to reevaluate your definition of  _nice_ , then.” She sighed. “I can only imagine how they must treat you if my snarkiness can be mistaken for anything close to niceties.”

A few quiet seconds passed before Sherlock turned his head gently, uneasily clearing his throat before returning to his own view out the taxi window. The silence made Alexis turn and rest her eyes firmly on the side of his head, taken slightly aback by this sudden display of temperance. “You're really not used to strangers being so accepting, are you?” she said finally.

Sherlock angled towards her with a shrug. “It comes with the territory.”

“So you just want honesty, yes?”

He shifted stiffly. “Yes, that's what I'm saying. Didn't exactly think it was that cryptic.”

“Fine, then, listen closely.” Her words were falling out of her mouth in a sharp haste, fueled by just enough frustration to buck out of her control and clip harshly off of her tongue. “Sherlock Holmes, you happen to be one of the most confusing, ill-mannered, irritating, selfish, and altogether fascinating people I've ever met in my life.” His eyes flickered curiously to her face as she continued, but it was too late for her to stop now. “Your talents are only matched by your own ego, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't at least partially earned. Every second around you either amazes me or makes me want to chuck something at your head, sometimes both. The very last thing I would do is pander to you, and if I ever do, I give you permission right now to swat some sense into me with that goofy hat of yours.” She paused briefly, and her eyes lowered softly. “And if you, of all people, are a freak, then I hate to see what that makes me.”

She caught his eyes, and held them in a feat of stubbornness that she only partially had to fake. His mouth dropped open slightly, lips moving in silent words as he pondered something. “You think the hat looks goofy too?”

Alexis's brow had to be halfway into her forehead by now. “ _That's_ what you got from that?”

“I knew it, I knew it wasn't just me. John  _always_ insists that it looks fine, says that it's good for my image. I always thought he was smirking when I put that stupid thing on my head, but he was so bloody pushy about it.”

“Oh, my God.”

“I agree, the nerve of that man. We are going to have a very stern conversation when he gets home.” He caught sight of her shaking her head, and his mouth pressed into a curious frown. “What?”

“You're a moron.” Her shoulders shook with gentle laughter as her jaw dropped towards her sternum. “A complete and utter moron.”

“Well, that's not very nice.”

“You don't want nice, remember?”

“That's right, I don't.” His mouth cracked into another small grin, this one almost frighteningly sincere. “So we understand each other.”

“I suppose. I'm not a nice doormat, and you're not a tragic basket case. Sound about right?”

“A good synopsis as any.” He gazed at her playfully with those pale eyes of his. “I would suppose that both of us would appreciate a good dose of honesty at this point. Neither of us seem particularly fond of when people try to treat us delicately.”

Alexis' tongue retracted low in her mouth, eyes widening fractionally in surprise. That was one observation she hadn't expected him to make. Yes, the insistent caution that others took with her had begun to tear at her patience; the fear in their faces at her very presence had started to wear on her. She wouldn't shatter at their touch, but they seemed afraid to breach anything with her, as if a misplaced word would demolish her. It wasn't the carefulness that irked her; it was the nervousness, the hesitance that made them seem so afraid at her presence. She couldn't tell if they thought she'd bite them or break down herself, and both seemed equally threatening to them. More than anything, she hated the numb feeling that their distance provoked in her. Had Sherlock really noticed that, or was it another lucky guess?

The car slowed, and Alexis glanced out the dark window instinctively. “Do you remember what I told you before we left?” Sherlock asked lightly, gripping his door handle.

Alexis sighed defeatedly. “Follow you unless you say otherwise, don't waste energy on arguing, and eat absolutely every bite of food you care to put in my hand.”

“Good girl.” The door clicked open behind her, and she took her cue to exit the cab herself. A quick shuffling of paper hinted that Sherlock had decided to pay the driver, for once. She stepped onto the sidewalk, the faint sunlight warming her face in the cool winter air. The silver building in front of her towered over its rust-colored counterparts, standing as a proud testament to its purpose. Scotland Yard would nearly be indistinguishable from the frosted gray sky behind it, were it not gleaming garishly in the morning sun. Sherlock circled to step beside her with quick steps, adjusting his gloves. “For God's sake, don't gawk. It's not that special.”

“I've just never been here before,” Alexis replied simply, jerking her legs into action as Sherlock guided his tall silhouette towards the door.

“Trust me, that's not anything to mourn.”

“Someone's a tiny bit cranky about the Yard today.”

“On the contrary, today's one of the few times they may actually have something useful for me. I'm exuberant.” She saw his flicker of a smirk in the reflection of the glass.

“And what would that be?”

“I'll tell you once they've shown me. No point in getting both of our hopes up.”

Both? That stroked her pride just a bit. Even if she wasn't particularly helpful, it was still admittedly nice to be included in his mindset, even if she was just a helper for murder investigations. They entered the building swiftly, engulfed by the warm air that circulated off the walls. Alexis tried her best to train her eyes on the fabric between Sherlock's shoulder-blades; already, she could tell that one curious glance away could leave her stranded in his haste. Other people hustled by her, brushing by her shoulders with steely eyes and stiff limbs. She tried to catch glimpses of their faces; this was a piece of London she had yet to see. It was a different pulse here that on Baker Street—life moved quicker here, pushed on by a different purpose. The need to hurry was contagious, and already she felt the strain of Sherlock's pace as he moved on his stupidly long legs. It wasn't until they heard a familiar voice call out behind them that he stopped, albeit with gritted teeth and a none too discreet impatient roll of the eyes.

Donovan had appeared behind them, her mane of hair bouncing with every sharp step. Her bright eyes immediately fell on Alexis. “Oh look, someone clothed you properly.” She turned to Sherlock with a raised brow. “Shouldn't your pet be tied up outside?”

Alexis felt anger churn in her stomach. When she opened her mouth, her voice was unashamedly flat. “Well, I was, but I have this bad habit of running in circles around the pole and getting myself stuck, so I'd just sit there and whine until someone helped untangle me. Really inconvenient, made people talk.”

Sherlock smirked beside her. “Really, Sergeant Donovan, there's no need to greet us at the door. The Yard needn't extend such gracious hospitality.”

“Lestrade mentioned you might be coming in, although he wasn't sure. Frankly, we all had our fingers crossed that you might find the commute too much to ask.” She lowered her eyes back to Alexis. “So why drag her along?”

“I'm being a good host. Wouldn't hardly be fair to leave her locked in the flat all day, now, would it?”

“Compared to spending the day with you, it might have been better manners.”

“I asked to come,” Alexis interjected, slightly annoyed to be the subject of conversation while literally standing between the two. “Needed a stretch of the legs.”

“That was a hefty price to pay then.” Donovan glanced irritatedly back to Sherlock's face. “Lestrade will want to see you right away then. Doesn't have all day.”

“Then I won't keep him waiting.” He quickly reached into his pocket and retrieved a crinkled pile of money, turning to Alexis. “You take this and get something from the vending machine. I'll come find you once I'm done.”

“Wait, I'm not following you?”

Sherlock grabbed her reluctant hand and pushed the money into her palm. “Not this time. I'll let you know what I find. Until then, you need calories, and you won't find any upstairs.”

Alexis's mouth dropped open to spit back a retort, but his eyes locked onto hers sternly. “What did I say in the cab?” he warned gently, tilting his head slightly as his stare challenged her to continue. His grip was firm, but there was no malice in it; even his face seemed relatively slack, surprisingly patient through his insistence. With an inhale, she clenched her teeth together and clamped her lips tightly, silently complying. Sherlock nodded approvingly, only relinquishing his grip on her wrist once her reluctant fingers had closed around the money he put in her hand. “Good. Spend less energy arguing with me and more on finding something to eat. You'll need it.”

Donovan watched the exchange with folded arms, her brow lifting fractionally. She turned to Sherlock in disbelief. “So you're letting her run rampant? Not even gonna leash her?”

“She's not running rampant. She has one of England's finest watching over her, now, doesn't she?”

It took a moment before Donovan realized what he was implying. She shifted her weight on her feet, voice hardening in indignation. “I know you don't think I'm taking over your babysitting duties. I have things to do, and flattery won't get you anywhere with me.”

Sherlock seemed unfazed as he turned away. “Don't worry, she's trained. Just put a pile of newspapers out and she'll do her business there.”

Alexis glared up at him, pressing the money into her pocket. “You are not helpful.”

“I don't have to be helpful. I'm not the assistant; that's your job.” With that, he gave a subtle wink and walked on to the stairs. Soon a crowd of people began to envelop him, barely shielding his familiar form among their bustling heads. She watched him leave, slightly frustrated that he didn't take her with him. Maybe she wasn't the quickest on her feet at the moment, but it seemed a little unfair that he would encourage her presence only to leave her at the door. Some assistant she was.

She turned to Donovan, who was still fuming beside her. At least she wasn't the only one a little disgruntled, although this certainly wouldn't have been Alexis's first choice. She unfastened the top of her coat in the heat, and gave a frustrated sigh. “Well, it was nice running into you, but I don't want to keep you, so I guess I'll let you go.” With that, she spun on her heel, immediately looking for some sign of building design beyond the flux of bodies that passed her vision. She leaned her body into the crowd, hoping to worm her way out and at least begin exploring, if only for the sake of a stroll. Sharp fingers immediately caught her arm, pulling her to a stop.

Alexis whipped around to see Donovan, who had a vice-like grip on her arm. “Where do you think you're going?” she demanded harshly.

Alexis's brow furrowed. “I was doing what I was told to do,” she responded hesitantly, although she failed to keep all of the bite from her tone. Donovan's face seemed to soften a little, although her fingers remained strong in their hold. 

“You always do what he says?”

“Well, it's worked out so far...”

Donovan's shoulders slumped as she glanced quickly to either side before settling her stare back onto the girl's face. “Look, I didn't want to say anything, but that freak has a habit of picking up strays and dragging them into these little games of his. Gets some sort of enjoyment out of it, I guess.”

“I'm keeping you from work, aren't I? Isn't that what you said?” Alexis struggled to hold back the bitterness from her voice. This intense approach from the sergeant was making her nervous.

“No, take my advice, and keep your distance from him. It's nothing but bad news for you, and I don't wanna see him add another one to his collection.”

“Not to be frank here, but what do you care?”

“Because you seem like a nice enough kid, and there's no need for you to get hurt in all of this—”

“Wait a minute, seriously?”

“What?”

“You've been nothing but bitter ever since you met me, and now you're trying to be nice?”

“I'm not _bitter_. I just have a difficult job, sometimes it comes out.”

Alexis glanced down briefly. “Maybe if you didn't wear heels to a job where you're on your feet all the time.”

Donovan suddenly shifted uncomfortably. “I have a date after this.”

“No, you don't. Your make-up's not done, your hair's not washed, and even if you were going to freshen up after your shift, you would have at least had the common sense to wear comfortable shoes and change into your heels after.”

After a brief second of silence, Donovan snorted. “Did the freak teach you that one?”

Alexis bristled at the mention of _freak,_ but even she knew that contesting the point would be a lost cause here. “I may be short-sighted, but I'm also female. I know that routine like the back of my hand. You're showing off the goods for Andersen, right?”

Donovan sniffed indignantly. “He's married.”

“Yeah, I know. Didn't stop you two before.”

Donovan glared at her, and Alexis shrugged. “What? Sherlock likes to talk on cab rides, these things come up.”

“I'm sure; the freak doesn't like to close his flapping mouth about anything.” Donovan's growl was frustrated, but the hiss barely left her teeth, and it didn't seem vindictive towards Alexis. That was a start. She sighed, and looked to Alexis with pondering eyes. “I can get a break here soon. You want some real food?”

Alexis paused hesitantly. “I'm not sure I should leave, if Sherlock's coming back...”

“If he was so worried, he should've taken you with him. I swear, he gets so excited about these cases, he forgets about everything else. Drives Lestrade up the wall.”

Alexis dragged her teeth reluctantly over the corner of her bottom lip, and Donovan chuckled lightly. “C'mon, I'm sure you have a phone he can call if he really gets worried for some reason. It'll take half an hour, tops, not like we're going very far. Besides, you need more than a bag of chips anyway.”

This act of generosity felt out of place, coming from her, but Alexis had to admit that the offer was tempting. It was strange to see those hardened brown eyes light up with a bit of humor. Sherlock always painted her as such a vile individual, and up until then, Alexis had no reason to question his judgement, based on her experience. Still, the sergeant seemed sincere enough, and Alexis had no interest in feuds. “You sure we'll be back soon?”

Donovan gave an encouraging smile and nodded towards the door, unfolding her arms. “Knowing him, we'll be back before he's done deducing what Lestrade had for breakfast.”

* * * *

The cheap carbohydrates felt like heaven in her mouth. Even compared to the cuisine Sherlock crafted in the flat, the bite of bagel in her cheeks tasted wonderfully sweet. She had forgotten the reason that she had always failed to follow no-carb diets; a couple days without bread left her unbearable. Donovan walked beside her on the sidewalk, mercifully slower than Sherlock's lengthy gait. It gave Alexis time to actually enjoy the sights around her as she slowly chewed; it had been a while since she had been around such crowded streets. Donovan caught her eyes, and briefly smiled. “Feeling any better?”

Alexis swallowed quickly. “Whatdaya mean?”

“You finally look like there's some life in your eyes. He feeds you, doesn't he?”

“You have no idea.” Alexis chuckled, wiping at the crumbs on the corner of her lips. “It's getting him to stop that's the hard part.”

“Yeah, well, that seems to be his M.O.” Donovan sipped on her coffee gingerly. “I'm sure you've caught onto that by now.”

“He tends to think his way is best.”

“He tends to think his way is gospel, more like it.” Donovan rolled her eyes. “Don't tell me he has you fooled too.”

Alexis's brow furrowed, stepping around an arguing couple who had failed to note her presence in their path. “Fooled into what, thinking he's a jackass?”

“Fooled into thinking that his circus act is somehow charming. He puts up a good face, but he'd trade you in an instant if it meant cracking one of those cases of his.” Donovan nudged her shoulder gently. “Don't fall for it. It's all a game to him, he says it outright. In the end, we're all just pawns to him.”

Alexis's face remained skeptical, hesitating to take another bite of her bagel. “And why do you care again?”

“I don't like seeing him rip other peoples' lives to shreds. He does it too well.” Donovan's voice was hard, the anger brittle in her tone.

“Twenty minutes ago, you were asking why I wasn't on a leash.”

“Yeah, and now I'm glad you're not, because he would use it to drag you up and down these streets until it wrung your neck.”

Alexis remained quiet for a few moments, glancing up the street with her lips pressed together tightly. The imagery was certainly vivid. There had to be some truth in that she said—Sherlock was not a malleable man, to say the least. His niceties weren't out of the goodness of his heart; they were mitigation measures, at best. Well-orchestrated moves, nothing less. Still, she had come to look forward to them, and the harsh truth behind his motivations were easier to ignore. “No love lost between you two, is there?”

“We're not on the best of terms.” The sergeant grinned slyly. “He's nothing I can't handle.”

“Confidence. I like it.”

“You don't get to where I am by being timid.” Donovan shrugged. She sipped on her coffee as Alexis turned back to the sidewalk with a small chuckle. Her eyes raised momentarily to see the other passing pedestrians, most with their gaze fixated on the pavement. It wasn't until one returned her stare that Alexis felt her chest squeeze.

It was a short moment, something Alexis might have attributed to an illusionary blink of an eye had she caught it a millisecond sooner. The passing stranger should have been the same as all the others, but the brief second that he angled his face towards her made all the difference. Large dark eyes flashed on her face from under a ratty ballcap, shading a boyish face whose features flickered under manicured eyebrows. His small mouth seemed to part in a semblance of a smirk, curling the stubble that lightly coated his chin—or maybe he was just exhaling. He had to be—why would a stranger smile at her so knowingly? The twist of his lips must have been a greeting, but the heat of fear spliced down her vertabrae; the smile seemed more familiar than salutory. Alexis's head twisted to watch him leave, her eyes trained on his slack shoulders that were adorned with loose, brandless clothing. As soon as he had arrived, he left; his attention had only dragged across her presence as quickly as the other pedestrians' had. It couldn't have been that same creature—in the pale winter sun, the light had to be playing tricks on her eyes. She had memorized the lines of that face; every shadowed feature had been burned into her memory. It had to be a mistake, some passing ghost of her mind that had fooled her eyes, manifesting what had haunted her thoughts for weeks. Still, in that moment she could've sworn it was him—the last time she had seen that sneer, it had been in the cold shadows of the  _Sayanara_ . 

The crowd swallowed the stranger from her sight, and Alexis swallowed violently, her throat suddenly dry. She gripped her bagel tightly, her nails digging into the soft surface to create harsh indentations in the crust. Donovan seemed to notice her sudden axiety, staring at the girl's strained face, which was still fixated aimlessly on the side of the street. “You alright?” she asked cautiously.

Alexis turned back warily, snapping her eyes back to the street in front of her. “Yeah, fine, I just...” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Nothing, I'm fine.”

“You got pale all the sudden. You sure you're alright?” Donovan's brow furrowed. “You're not getting sick on me, are ya?”

“No, thought I saw...thought I saw someone I knew. It's nothing, I'm just being stupid.” Alexis attempted a tired smile, its insincerity not lost on Donovan.

“I didn't know you had many friends in London.”

_Friends_ . That was nearly laughable. “I have friends everywhere, apparently,” Alexis replied, her voice jumping lightly with bittersweet humor. 

Donovan's head jerked at the sound of slowing tires behind them, and her eyes suddenly narrowed into a harsh glare at the sight. “Here comes one now,” she retorted stiffly, lowering her coffee next to her hips as she instinctively came to a stop. Alexis glanced over to see the ebony finish of a sleek vehicle rolled beside them, braking gently as the window opened with a hiss.

“Out for a morning stroll, Ms.Messek?” Mycroft's voice floated from the interior with dangerous jovialty. Alexis froze at the sight of him, trying to assess the grin on his face that were paired with his usually steely eyes. “You made a new friend, I see.”

“What do you want?” Donovan snapped. Her eyes were angry, but her mouth moved jerkily around her words. Apparently there was no love lost between her and the elder Holmes either, but she seemed to be more wary of him than his younger sibling.

“Just out in the neighborhood, like you.” His stare fell coldly on Alexis again. “Funny running into you, I was just about to make a housecall on Baker Street. What a happy coincidence.”

_You don't believe in coincidences_ , Alexis thought to herself. Quite frankly, she didn't either, at least with him. No doubt the tracker on her phone was proving useful to him lately. “I appreciate your concern,” she responded carefully. 

“We can hardly have a proper chat on the side of the road, now, can we?” Mycroft gestured hastily, and the car door opened with a click. “Come take a ride with me, so we can catch up. A lot's happened these past few days that I'm just itching to hear about.”

Donovan quickly gripped Alexis's arm. “I don't like this,” she hissed close to Alexis's ear.

_What was your first clue?_ Alexis had resist herself from retorting. “I don't think I have much choice in the matter.”

“I don't trust him.” Donovan's face was hardset, a flicker of concern still softening her large brown eyes. It seemed strange on the sergeant's features, but it was an expression that Alexis appreciated nonetheless. “You're supposed to stay with me, remember? They'll be waiting back at the station.”

“A heartwarming gesture of charity on your part, Sergeant Donovan, but Ms. Messek will be completely safe in my care.” His smile broadened, but his eyes narrowed icily. “Besides, she's not your responsibility, is she? She's a capable adult, but more importantly, she's my charge, and we have matters to discuss.”

Mycroft's pernicious stare made Donovan's hold on the girl's arm soften, but she was reluctant to remove her fingers completely. “You don't have to go,” Donovan urged. “It's not like he'll jump out and push you in.”

“I'd rather not take that chance.” Alexis hoped that her voice sounded more confident than she felt. She pulled away from Donovan's hand, which trailed off of her sleeve and fell reluctantly to the woman's side. Alexis attempted a timid smile. “I'll be fine, the worst he does is tap me with the cane.”

“Only if she gets mouthy.” Mycoft lifted a beckoning hand, his face struggling not to twist in impatience. Alexis cast one last wary glance to Donovan before slowly stepping to the car, bending to lean through the opening. She curled her legs inside and slid uneasily onto the leather seat opposite Mycroft. The door slammed behind her with an ominous grunt. “That'll be all, Sergeant Donovan.”

As the window whirred back into its upright position, Alexis watched Donovan's worried eyes as the dark glass veiled her silhouette. The car jerked past into motion with a low roar, slowly sliding past Donovan on the sidewalk clutching her coffee. Alexis warily turned her stare ahead of her as the same crowd of nameless faces surrounded the vehicle until the car turned to the road and picked up speed. The interior of the car was darkly furnished, which made Mycroft's pale complexion seem startling by contrast. A woman sat beside him quietly, at ease in his presence; that made one of them. Mycroft crossed his legs casually, his loafered foot tracing circles in the air. The cheap bagel in her hand seemed glaringly out of place as she placed it on the seat beside her, wondering if the crumbs might devalue the quality of the leather material. “It's been an exciting couple of days for you,” Mycroft commented lightly.

She didn't trust the look on his face. It was much too calm, too... _happy_ . Mycroft never showed happiness without a catch; he was the epitome of calm before the storm. “It sure has,” she responded carefully, her tone questioning. Mycroft grinned at the confusion in her voice. 

“You seem nervous.”

“You seem proud of that.”

“Just a little.” Mycroft settled back into his seat. “I was wondering what the aftermath might be once you had awoken. I wasn't expecting it to be morning strolls with officers of the Scotland Yard.”

“To be completely honest, neither was I.” Her tongue felt dry against the roof of her mouth. She always wavered on how biting her words could be to this person; he seemed to rather enjoy it, but his patience was far from inexhaustible.

“Ah, honesty. That's what I was hoping for from you.” His finger tapped on the gleaming curve of his cane as he regarded her with a raised thin eyebrow. “It would seem that the absence of even a meager peddler like our friend Mr. Smith doesn't escape notice from his peers. I've been able to counter most of the backlash, of course, but it's led to some interesting ramifications.”

“Interesting...?” Alexis watched his face cautiously.

His gaze became steely; the stormclouds had begun to churn. “It would appear that his capture has led to rumors.”

_God, does the need to reveal information so dramatically run in the family_ ? “What kind of rumors?”

“Rumors regarding you. More specifically, the little factoid regarding your survival, and also some hints at your possible location.”

The silence that followed felt stale and terse. Mycroft seemed less than eager to fill it, instead watching her face for any miniscule twitch with the calm demeanor of a man watching ripples echo across a puddle's surface. Alexis felt her lips part slightly as she struggled to find words that wouldn't betray the bud of nervousness that had been planted between her lungs. “Do they know...?” she asked finally, trying to mask the sudden bout of anxiety that flitted across her nerves.

“Not for certain. I have plenty of people who have been able to ensure that.”

It did little to assuage her, but Alexis certainly didn't doubt him. “I suppose I should thank you for that.”

“No need. However,” he continued as his eyelids lowered dangerously, “my patience does have a limit.”

The threat seemed out of place, even for him. Alexis's frown deepened, her tongue flickering nervously behind her teeth. “I don't understand...”

“Allow me to elaborate. At the moment, the sole reason I am protecting you is because James Moriarty has deemed you the cornerstone to his recent exploits, and as long as he remains uncertain of your survival, then he is likely to remain cautious regarding the future of Project Elijah.”

Alexis felt her fingers clench numbly. This shouldn't surprise her, she knew—Mycroft had never held her best interests in mind. Still, to hear those words fall out of his mouth with such unapologetic nonchalance stung in her chest. She had just adjusted to being around regular human beings, and had started to scrap together the semblance of normality; why was he reminding her of this now? “I don't...” she tried to reply, but found herself trailing off, unable to complete the sentence.

“The moment your value as insurance runs out, then you're only useful as trading incentive against him, which I will do without remorse, as I'm sure you're well aware of. Hopefully, it won't have to escalate so far.”

That was the assertion that caused every tendon in Alexis's body to seize in fear. The thought of being returned to Moriarty terrified her in the most primal manner; memories surged violently in her head. They came in flashes—the flash of bright teeth, the soft touch of a prodding hand on her face, the soothing growl of a voice that swept over her forebodingly. She had seen Moriarty's face only once, but once was all she needed. His one visit to the ship, after the wake of such blood and death, had been only to see his first and only successful specimen; the pride in his eyes had been enough to nauseate her. The sight of him, dressed in such pristine clothes in such a barbaric place, had convinced her of the monster that he was, and his claws had been firmly over her. If given the chance again, he wouldn't let those talons leave her squirming body again. “What do you want?” Alexis asked quietly, her voice shaking.

Mycroft shrugged. “I only want to do my job. I do it well.”

Alexis swallowed again, to no avail. “Why tell me all this?”

Mycroft sniffed bemusedly. “Because my brother has an awful habit of encouraging certain behaviors in other people, and more often than not, these behaviors add a hiccup to my day. I can usually handle these just fine; they're more like an annoyance than anything else. However, the last thing I need is for my brother to put the notion in your head that you have any semblance of power in this situation.”

“He hasn't.” Her voice was even quieter, fragile to the touch as it left her lips.

“Perhaps not yet. I'm sure he will, or he'll try to, at any rate. However, the idea of you trying to achieve 'justice' of any kind is, quite frankly, laughable.” He sighed. “This isn't a novella, Ms. Messek. You are no heroine. In the real world, people get hurt, stay hurt, and don't get compensated for it. Bad people win out here. It's my job to simply limit their prizes.”

_I'm a prize, then_ . She stayed quiet, too afraid to open her mouth. Her eyes remained on the bones of her wrists folded over her knees. Every muscle in her body was motionless as she could make them, hardening herself against this man, whose cold eyes could seemingly pierce her skin. This was what she abhorred—this moment, right here, with that knowing stare purposely maneuvering her every move. With a snap of his fingers, he could have her locked away, never to be seen in daylight again. He could have her drugged, or exiled, or just pick away at every last freedom left in London for her. What's more, he would have no remorse doing so, if it meant that she would comply. The loss of power left her helpless in the most painful and familiar way. She wasn't tied down, but under those eyes, she might as well have been _._

“You understand, I take it?” Alexus nodded. “Good, I thought you might.” Mycroft adjusted his hands on his cane, tilting his head slightly. “As I said before, Ms. Messek, I'm not the bad guy here. I'm sympathetic to your situation—anyone with eyes can see that it's unfortunate. You're certainly in a unique position, to say the least.” Alexis carefully raised her eyes, her mouth clenched tightly.

Mycroft gave a disinterested grin. “I'm sure it's crossed your mind. You know how important this project was to James P. Moriarty, of all people. I'm sure you're also well aware that he would pay any price right now to have you back in his possession.”

Alexis nodded again, knowing all too well. Mycroft seemed reassured as he continued. “Some people would assume this means that you would have some sort of advantage over him. This is misguided. I'm here to tell you that this is not the case. You have no dog in this fight, Ms. Messek. You would do better to lick your wounds in peace, and let people like me take care of this business.”

“Happily.” Her voice was cracked and sharp.

“Good. I'll be monitoring to make sure you take my advice, although I'm sure you're already well aware of that.”

The road hummed urgently beneath her seat as the car began to slow, nearing the sidewalk once more. Her eyes narrowed; as far as she could tell, there was nothing to warrant the sudden stop, as the same harmless crowd still permeated the side of the streets. It wasn't until the car had practically come to complete stop that a strong angry hand collided into the side of the vehicle. Alexis jumped in her seat and glanced up to see Sherlock's angry silhouette out the window, his palm flat against the metal which reverberated under the force. “Mycroft, you open this door,  _now_ !”

Mycroft gestured lightly for his assistant to unlock the door, and the mechanism clicked obediently. Immediately Sherlock ripped open the door, his eyes flashing in rage. His long, dark body hunched over the opening of the car ominously. He hastily reached in and seized Alexis's arm, pulling her roughly through the door. Her legs trailed behind her, struggling to keep up with the surprisingly strong grip Sherlock had on her limb.“Sherlock, is this really necessary?” Mycroft snapped in irritation.

“I could ask you the same question.” Sherlock shifted his hold to Alexis's shoulder, quickly glancing her over with piercing eyes to assess any presence of damage. Once he was satisfied, he yanked her closer to his torso, making sure to angle her away from Mycroft. His nostrils flared in contempt. “Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?”

“I'm conversing with my charge,” Mycroft answered simply, raising a palm innocuously. “Whom, by the way, I found taking a leisurely stroll throughout London. Seems a little soon, considering recent events, doesn't it?”

“Don't you change the subject,” Sherlock snarled, his lips pulling against his teeth. “I take my eyes off of her for two minutes, and you swipe her and take her for a 'courteous' ride around the city? Why don't I find that as innocent as you claim?”

“Always the skeptic, aren't you.” Mycroft shrugged and sat back in his seat. “I suppose it's just as well. It might be time for me to run along back to the office, anyway.”

“Yes, the bulldog of Britain better get back to paperwork, lest the whole kingdom fall by noon.” Sherlock placed a pale hand on the top of the open door, gripping it fiercely. “Don't let us simple folk keep you.”

“Keep an eye on her, Sherlock.” Mycroft wagged a condescending finger. “We wouldn't want something bad to happen to her, now, would we.”

“No, certainly not. I'm sure this unfortunate visit was enough of a displeasure for one day.” He slammed the door with a satisfying clap, the mechanism locking into place. Alexis half-expected Mycroft to roll down the window to get the last word, but the vehicle began to slunk back into motion, slipping back into the traffic as it smoothly gathered speed. Sherlock watched it go, his eyes coldly narrowing at the car's bumper until it had completely left his sight. Alexis remained still at his side and kept her face lowered. The man's anger was paralyzing, and her skin prickled just being near it. The hairs on her arms raised beneath her jacket as his body turned to her. Sherlock's glare seared against her eyelids, but she kept her stare firmly on the sidewalk. “I was fairly certain my instructions were clear.”

“Yes, they were.” Alexis's voice was barely louder than a whisper; she dared not raise her voice any higher, lest her lips start to tremble against her will. Sherlock's voice was hard as the heat of his stare burned against the bridge of her nose.

“Then why didn't you follow them?”

“I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

Sherlock paused, his eyes trailing on her pale face and lowered gaze. She felt his expression shift; it wasn't as much anger as it was curiosity—or dare she think it, concern—although the heat was still relentless against her face. “What did he do to you?”

“Nothing. Just talked.”

Suddenly, she felt a firm grip under her chin as Sherlock placed a massive palm beneath her face and shoved her head back, his fingertips pressing into the curve of her jaw. The material of his glove was cold as it rubbed against her skin. She struggled to look away, but Sherlock forced her face higher relentlessly. “He does a lot with words. I want to know what he said that has you all skittish again.”

“Nothing. He didn't say anything to frighten me.”

“You're lying.”

“Mycroft Holmes doesn't scare me.” She met his eyes, surprised by the surge of sincerity that mixed with her fear. She took a steady breath as the weight of her sternum started to allay in her chest. It was true—Mycroft was an dangerous presence, for sure, and someone who had an unnerving amount of power over her, but he wasn't who frightened her. That was reserved for someone whose face still manifested behind her closed eyelids, covered by cold shadows cast off lightless metal walls of a dead ship. Mycroft was a skilled threat, but he was no monster. Sherlock's frown deepened skeptically, causing Alexis to clench her fists in an attempt to harden her face in a semblance of bravery. “He doesn't. He's just trying to get into a pissing contest, and I'm not interested in competing with him.”

Sherlock's head tilted at the blatantly vulgar description, his face lightening in a careful sense of amusement. “I should hope not,” he replied carefully, loosening his hold on her jaw. “Even if you're supposedly not afraid of him, not too many go toe-to-toe with him and win.”

“You do.”

“Well, of course, I grew up with him. I've seen sides of him you could never imagine.”

“The threatening side, or the 'embarrassing pictures in a scrapbook' side?”

Sherlock barely contained his grin. “Both.”

“Do you have personal copies, by chance?”

“Regrettably, no, but that's easily remedied.”

“Let me know when that happens.”

“You'll be the first person I call.”

Alexis's head tilted free of Sherlock's trailing fingers. “How did you know where I was, anyway?”

“As soon as Mycroft snatched you, Sergeant Donovan came rushing back to the station to alert Inspector Lestrade and I. She didn't seem to think you went very willingly.” Sherlock slid his hand into his coat pocket. “Knowing Mycroft, he wasn't likely to take you far. I followed the main road to see if he'd circle around—his vehicle isn't exactly difficult to spot.”

“You chased us down?”

“It's not the first vehicle I've chased. I'm honestly a bit shocked you're still surprised.” He sighed heavily through his nose, a light fog of warm air curling into mist and veiling his face. “I think it's time we returned to Baker Street. You've had more than enough excitement for one day, given your current condition.”

“I'm fine.”

“You're recovering, remember? And you're forgetting that John will have my head if you get even the mildest case of the sniffles on my account.” He paused, meeting her eyes briefly. “Can I ask a question?”

Alexis blinked. “Holy hell, you actually asked first.”

“Is that a yes?

Alexis watched him cautiously. “Okay, shoot.”

“The letters you wrote out in the lab. They're the same thing you were reciting when the Inspector found you.”

That was a subject Alexis hadn't expected to arise so suddenly. She nodded slowly. “Uh-huh..?”

“What do they mean?”

She tried to mask her uneasiness by angling her head curiously. “You couldn't figure it out?”

“I could, but this route seems far more efficient.”

Well, that was fair enough, albeit still unorthodox given Sherlock's usual methods. Her eyes fell softly, twisting her fingers into her palm. “Do I really have to explain it now?”

“You don't necessarily have to,” Sherlock replied lightly, raising his hand to hail a cab while still watching her from over the curve of his nose. “However, I have a feeling it may assist us in the recent discovery Inspector Lestrade just informed me of.”

Alexis's gaze snapped back up to his face. “He found something? The thing he called you in for?” she asked, surprised by the lack of hesitance in her voice.

“Indeed, he did.”

Her brow furrowed. “Do I get to know about it?”

“Would I be so cruel to flaunt such a thing and not deliver on it?”

“You would, and you would enjoy it.”

“John's skepticism has rubbed off on you, I see.” Sherlock grinned half-heartedly. “It wasn't something he wanted to show you, and I doubt my brother is keen on you knowing about it either.”

_Again with the dramatic reveal. These Holmes men and their theatrics_. “How 'not-keen' would he be?”

“I dare say it'd make him quite angry.” An ebony cab neared the curb, slowing to Sherlock's summons.

“Are you trying to scare me away from asking about this?”

“Hardly.” Sherlock reached for the door handle as the cab inched to a stop, glancing back at her with gleaming eyes. “Trying to encourage you.” He clicked open the door, beckoning for her to enter. “Get in. We have some government officials to disobey.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FREAKING FINALLY.
> 
> This chapter took forever--it's long, and a lot of the drama is somewhat subtle. 
> 
> Lemme know what you think! Until next time!


	9. Tension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's only been MONTHS since I've updated this, but I've finally finished this chapter! (12 pages later!)
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

 

“I'm gonna go with no on this one.”

“You're being ridiculous. It's not going to hurt you.”

“I'm not so sure.”

“That's fairly rude, you know. It's considered bad manners to refuse a gift from someone.”

“It's also considered bad manners to experiment on people, now, isn't it?”

“Well, if you're going to get technical.”

Alexis gave a heavy sigh, leaning against the kitchen chair as hair fell across her cheeks. Gray morning light streaked across the carpet through the cracks in the curtains, wisping around the edges of the tile of the kitchen near her feet. Another day of work for Dr.Watson meant another day where she was alone with Sherlock in the flat, as had been the norm for the past few weeks. The only difference was Sherlock's notable scarcity of cases as of late. Without something to engage his mind, Alexis became his focus of entertainment; those jade eyes fell on her all too easily, usually with something mischievous churning in that brain of his. “Remember what happened last time you offered me tea?”

“That was one time, and you're blowing it out of proportion.”

“Oh, really? Remember what you told me was 'sugar'?”

“It was harmless, and I'll have you know, that helped free an innocent man from a lifetime in prison on murder charges.”

“Great. Tell that to the couch cushion I spent a whole day drooling on like a saint bernard.”

“It's good for you to relax every once in a while.” Sherlock sat back in his own wooden chair, stretching his limber legs beneath the table. His mouth stretched in a laborious yawn that exposed the molars in the back of his jaw. The blue fabric of his shirt scrunched under his fingertips as he dragged them lazily to scratch at an itch on his chest under the cotton.

“There's a difference between relaxed and drugged into a coma.”

“They're not mutually exclusive, per se.”

Alexis sighed, sinking into the chair across the table. Her legs draped off the side to avoid colliding with Sherlock's wide bare feet. The harsh curve of his ankle peeked from under the loose fabric of his pajamas. “Is that what you're doing today? Relaxing?”

“Why, because I'm drinking tea in my pajamas this morning?”

“It's three in the afternoon.”

Sherlock grunted. “A technicality.” He seized the cup in front of him with a nimble grip and brought the steam to his lips. “Perhaps you should be taking a rest day yourself. You look absolutely horrendous.”

“Thanks.” Alexis's voice was flat as she drew one knee to her chest, wrapping her legs around the limb as she rested her foot on the seat of the chair. Sherlock watched her carefully; the amethyst hue had darkened beneath her eyes. Every muscle in her shoulders was lax, letting her limbs slump in exhaustion. Her frame was fuller, but her energy had yet to return. She rubbed at cheek with the blunt palm of her hand. “Didn't sleep so well last night.”

Sherlock sipped gingerly on his tea. “Nightmares again?”

Alexis frowned. “Just a little restless, that's all.”

“Please, your attempt to lie just pains me. I share a flat with an ex-soldier, you think I don't know the signs of post-traumatic stress disorder?”

The girl's eyes drilled heat into Sherlock's cheekbones. He lifted one brow to glance at her softly with a frown. “What, bad wording?”

“A bit.”

“Should I apologize?”

“I think we can spare both of us of that.”

He hid a slight grin behind the rim of the cup as he drew it back to his lips. “I'm just trying to be helpful, you know.”

“I know you are, in your own stupid way. I'm not that much of an idiot.”

Sherlock lithely placed his cup back on the table. “You haven't had your coffee yet, have you?”

“Am I being that irritating?”

“Not your worst moment by far, but you definitely seem a tad bit snappy this morning.”

Alexis shrugged. “I'm forming coherent sentences, so I'm counting this as a success so far.”

Sherlock pushed the other teacup towards her. “Take. The tea. Caffeine deprivation will only make it worse.”

“I would rather suffer a caffeine headache than whatever side effects you have planned for me in that cup.”

“Has it occurred to you that I might just be offering a simple cup of morning tea out of the goodness of my heart?”

Alexis blinked for a brief moment before releasing a small snort. “It both amazes and frightens me that you can say that with a straight face.”

“I suppose I deserve that.” Sherlock curled his spine into the chair, swirling the liquid in his cup uneasily. His eyes followed the curling pool methodically. “John's been asking if we should find someone for you.”

The girl's brow furrowed. “What do you mean by 'find someone'?”

“Someone for you to talk to about your...nightmares.”

“You mean, like a shrink?”

“Counselor, actually, and that seems to be the general idea.”

“And what exactly would I tell them? A madman drowned all my friends and that makes me sad?”

“Well, that's pretty to the point, although it might be a little short, assuming you want to fill the whole session.” Sherlock sipped quickly at his cooling tea.

“I wouldn't be able to tell them anything. The whole confidential, top-secret bio-terroism thing kinda gets in the way.”

“It'd have to be someone Mycroft selects and grooms beforehand.”

Alexis's eyes turned cold and steely in her tired face. “There's no way in hell I'm going to grovel to Mycroft for a psychiatrist. God, he would love that way too much.”

“That's what I keep telling John.” Sherlock chugged the last mouthful of tea before placing the empty cup back onto the table. “The less my brother has to do with you, the better.”

Alexis's nose scrunched over a stout frown. “So I take it you don't agree with Dr. Watson?”

Sherlock lifted his eyes thoughtfully. “Do I agree with him that you need some sort of professional attention? Yes, probably.” He rested his arm onto the back of his chair. “However, I don't think we're in quite the situation to access it at the moment. Anyone we send you to would probably recommend you to a mental ward, and anyone Mycroft would send you to would likely toss pills down your throat.” He sighed. “It's regrettable, but currently it's much better to keep the status quo, even if it means the continuation of your...nightmares.”

“I can handle the occasional bad dream, Sherlock.”

“I'm sure you can.” His voice was flat, almost forced. His mouth flattened as he took note of the roughness of her voice; he knew that tone. She was clearly unaware that he could hear her whip back into consciousness from her fits at night, only to bite back strangled breaths as she would lay down shaking back into a restless sleep. Such small sounds carried down the hallway and ricocheted all too easily off the busy wallpaper. Her face was firm now, unwilling to admit the severity of events that a thin wooden door couldn't mask completely. When she met his gaze, he quickly gave a strained grin that didn't reach his eyes. The wrinkles in his cheeks looked too plastic underneath that watchful stare. If she didn't know him any better, she would say he was worried.

“So what will you tell Dr.Watson?”

“The obvious—that Mycroft is a manipulative twat who will make sure he gets his grimy fingers all over any attempt to help you.” Sherlock stood with a grunt. “Besides, there's only person I trust to slip you any debilitating medication, and it certainly isn't anybody Mycroft would recommend.”

“So, you?”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched as he nudged the other steaming cup in her direction. “Have some tea. I insist.”

* * * * * *

Lestrade had forgotten sugar for his coffee, again. He didn't exactly need it—he wasn't a stranger to the habit of chugging steaming black coffee to get him through a shift—but he found himself groaning inwardly at missing such a tiny detail. His eyes fell grumpily on the gray stairs as he ascended, swerving around passing people with abrupt, delayed motions. He rubbed his weary, lined eyes, still rimmed in dark circles from the rough hours of sleep he had managed to get the previous night. It had been the type of dreamless slumber that would sit heavily in his veins until it slowly sweat out of his skin. He barely noticed the impatient shoulders that brushed against his jacket; his legs knew this route to this office well, which allowed for a few sweet mindless moments. The flooring beneath his feet changed texture as the crowd became more sparse around him; the fluctuation of light warmed his brow as a familiar landmark. He gratefully lifted his hand and clasped his fingers around the doorknob absentmindedly, which yielded far too easily beneath his grasp. Had he left it unlocked? He couldn't remember. Pushing his shoulder against the door, Lestrade inhaled the familiar musk of his office in relief.

“You're late, Inspector.”

Lestrade jumped slightly, the coffee slashing noisily against the side of his cup. Sherlock was sitting patiently in the chair across from Lestrade's desk, barely tilting his face in the Inspector's direction upon his entry. Alexis was leaning uneasily on the back of the chair behind Sherlock's shoulder, arms crossed hesitantly across her chest. John turned to Lestrade almost apologetically, settled into the neighboring seat to Sherlock. Lestrade resisted the urge to grip his coffee much too tightly, instead clenching his jaw for a brief moment before speaking. “I wasn't expecting visitors.”

“Clearly.” Sherlock arched an eyebrow at the state of Lestrade's desk. Lestrade frowned and stepped into the office, shutting the door behind him with a nudge.

“Could've fixed that, if you had, you know. Phoned me.”

“You don't turn on your phone until you reach the office. Seems rather inefficient in the long run.”

Lestrade stifled a sigh as he took a long swig of coffee, sauntering to his desk as the brew coated his throat. He dropped into his chair before he set the cup purposefully onto the surface of his desk. His hand still wrapped around his cup like an anchor as he squinted to the clock on the wall before turning back to Sherlock skeptically. “How long have you been here?”

John's shook his head shortly. “Trust me, you don't want to know.”

“That long?”

“It was all we could do to keep him from knocking on your door at home.”

“It wouldn't have been so long if you had been to work on time,” Sherlock clipped.

Lestrade glanced to the clock again. “It's only six minutes.”

“Yes, and if you had simply opted to have coffee brewed here rather than waiting behind two indecisive customers at a marginally mediocre stand, we would've been having this conversation six minutes ago.”

Lestrade rested onto his forearm, still gripping his coffee cup protectively. “Ignoring the fact that you trespassed into my office, this seems to be one of your crabby days, so I'll play along. How exactly can I help you, Sherlock?”

“I need autopsy records for Sarah Brayan and Andrew Scarn.”

“Is that it? Sure, why don't I let you waltz the bodies home with you while you're at it?”

“It wouldn't be the first time.”

“First of all, I did not condone that,” Lestrade retorted with the point of a warning finger. “And second of all, you know that I'm not free to do that.”

“You're not _free_ to do a lot of things. Hasn't stopped you before.”

Lestrade's finger tapped thoughtfully on the curvature of his cup. “Fine,” he sighed tightly. “But only because I'm a little relieved you've finally paying attention to the case.”

“It's a sadistic serial killer. Of course I'm paying attention.”

Lestrade paused. “Andrew Scarn was a suicide. He carved himself up, remember?”

“Clearly coerced, or at the very least strongly encouraged.”

“Do you have any suspects for the Brayan case, at least?”

“The tone of your voice suggests that you do.”

“Sarah Brayan witnessed her partner get run down by a car two years ago after they had an argument. It was ruled an accident, but the girlfriend's brother blamed Brayan, and Brayan's had a restraining order on him ever since he got threatening soon after the incident. He's been traveling in London for the past few days.”

“And you think it's him?”

“It's a start.”

“And what connection does he have to Andrew Scarn?”

Lestrade frowned. “None, that we can tell.”

“And there's your dilemma.”

“Isn't it it possible that the two aren't connected? Maybe Scarn heard about Brayan's death and used it to his advantage?”

“What advantage? It's entirely possible that these incidents are separate; however, that seems a little too spurratic.”

“So you believe in this theory of some countdown killer, then?”

“I believe the facts, nothing more.”

“Which are what, pray tell?”

Sherlock leaned forward in his seat. “Sarah Brayan was hiding in her flat weeks before she was murdered. Andrew Scarn was a walking concoction of depression and narcotic addiction. Sarah Brayan wanted to live, Andrew Scarn wanted to die, and yet they both ended mutilated and displayed in public. Neither of them had close connections with friends and coworkers, so there was no no one to realize their absence. Both of them had their secrets exploited for the purpose of using their corpses to capture attention. Why not hide the bodies, unless they want someone to notice?”

“Someone like who?”

“Now, that's the right question.” Sherlock settled back into his chair, the tension of his jaw stretching the pale skin across his cheekbones. “I need the autopsy records to start with, and then I can get you your answer. I can't build a house without bricks.”

“Yeah, yeah, I'll get you your damn bricks.” Lestrade glanced up to Alexis cautiously. “Not to be crass, but if John's back, why are you still toting her around with you?”

“She has her uses.” Sherlock extended his arm expectantly, the sleeve pulled back to reveal the pale flesh of his forearm. “Refresh me.”

Alexis's brow raised hesitantly. “You just had one.”

“Yes, and now I require another. Didn't think it was that difficult.”

Alexis looked carefully to John. “Is that wise?”

With a heavy inhale, the doctor shrugged defeatedly. “No, not really, but he'll pitch a fit if you don't, and we already had to listen to him whine in the cab ride over here.”

“I did not _whine_ , I was simply relaying instructions.”

“In a very whiny tone of voice, yes.”

Lestrade sighed, sipping his coffee desperately. The swig of bitter liquid did little to settle his tongue or his mood. Once the liquid had properly scalded his esophagus, he wiped clumsily at his lips. “Just do what he wants. I'm not nearly caffeinated enough to handle a Sherlock Holmes tantrum yet.”

Sherlock glanced to him with an indignant frown. Alexis's mouth tightened to repress a sigh as she stepped forward, drawing a small square of material out of her pocket. The wrapper crinkled as she ripped it open and slapped a pale nicotine patch onto Sherlock's exposed wrist. The man's flesh shuddered briefly under the adhesive as Sherlock closed his fist, blood surging through his limb and tracing dark lines in the tense flesh.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “Isn't it a little early for that, Sherlock?”

“I need to focus, and unlike some people, I can't simply forgo thinking until after lunch.” He jerked his chin towards Alexis. “You placed it an inch too far to the left.”

“Get snarky like that again and I'll put it right on your face.”

“Well, that wouldn't make it very effective.”

“That's not exactly the point.”

Lestrade sank heavily into his chair, setting his coffee cup onto the surface of his desk. He glanced to John curiously. “Is this what they do now? Just bicker at each other?”

“You seem surprised.”

Lestrade snorted. “I suppose I shouldn't be; that seems to be how he communicates with everyone.”

John smirked lightly. “She's gonna strangle him with that scarf one of these days.”

Sherlock's mouth curled disapprovingly, eyes darting darkly in John's direction. The doctor either didn't notice or didn't care, folding his arms as the cushion pressed into his spine. Alexis tilted her head to John briefly. “Is that an option?”

Lestrade shook his coffee cup, forlorn at the remaining lonely mouthful that spattered against the sides. “I thought you two were crime scene buddies now, what happened?”

“They've been talking, that's what happened.” John paused thoughtfully. “Or not talking, in Sherlock's case. Apparently you showed something to Sherlock that he was going to share, but he ended up getting distracted and never did. Changed his mind last minute.”

Lestrade regarded Sherlock coldly. “He wasn't  _supposed_ to share it. Good to hear he's listening for once.”

“I didn't do it for you.” Sherlock's voice calmed as the nicotine trickled into his system. “I thought there was a viable connection. I was mistaken.”

Lestrade blinked. “Those are three words you don't say very often.”

“It doesn't happen very often.” Sherlock rubbed at the nicotine patch with his thumb. “At any rate, it wasn't worth filling any space in her brain, God knows it's already limited.”

John rolled his eyes before gripping the bridge of his nose in tired frustration. “Sherlock, you could at least  _pretend_ to play nice.”

Alexis shook her head defeatedly, giving a small smirk. “Don't worry about it, Dr. Watson. I didn't expect him to play very nice today after he skipped his morning tea.”

Sherlock sniffed, his thin nostrils fluttering. “Ironic that you're lecturing me about caffeine, considering your little addiction, but how kind of you to offer.” He glanced to her carelessly and held her indignant stare. A few moments of silence passed as she watched him over her slender crossed arms.

“You're joking.”

“Coffee, black, two sugars. Break room is down the hall on your left. Try not to mess it up.”

“All that fuss back in the flat, and you bring me along to be your coffee girl?”

“You wanted to be my assistant. Now, assist me.” Sherlock waved his hand lazily. “Off with you now. Go fetch.”

The glare that Alexis gave in response made the hair on Lestrade's neck bristle as if singed, simply by being in the same room. Sherlock seemed not to notice, keeping his gaze calmly aloft with an air of impatience. The tension in the room remained unchallenged for a few heavy seconds before Alexis unfolded her arms with a roll of her eyes and began to walk towards the doorway. She stepped hurriedly past Sherlock, whose locks rustled gently from the hasty movement as he followed her with his expectant eyes. Once she turned the corner, he directed himself back towards Lestrade casually, who had been watching the exchange with an unimpressed expression on his terse face.

“Y'know, if you could stop making promises to her that you don't intend to keep, that would make things blow over a little smoother.”

John crossed his legs, arms still folded neatly across his chest. “It would also help if he wasn't detective prima donna.”

Sherlock gave John a quick glower before lifting his eyes back to the inspector. “I overestimated her progress. Mycroft's little interference disrupted things.”

Lestrade's eyebrow raised into the crease of his forehead. “Her progress? She washed up a month ago, what kind of bloody timeline were you hoping for?”

John cleared his throat lowly, attempting meagerly to dispel some of the growing animosity that was creeping into the room. His mouth parted shortly before he leaned into the arm of his chair. “What exactly was Sherlock not supposed to show her?”

Lestrade turned to John, thankful for a brief change in subject. “We found some footage from a ship in distress. It's a little damaged—fuzzy and all—but one moment, everything's normal. Next thing, lights are down, and there's a brief moment of panic before the footage fizzles out. I had Sherlock confirm it was our ship—doesn't give us much else, besides confirmation on what we already knew, which is that the  _Sayanara_ ran into some trouble.”

Sherlock's frown tightened. “You didn't  _find_ anything, the footage was leaked right into your hands, and it was edited to be ambiguous on purpose. It's just enough to elicit a response.”

“You think someone's toying with us?”

“Someone wants the investigation to continue. They're throwing a pebble in the pond to chase the ripples.”

“For what?” Lestrade paused. “You think it has to do with the girl?”

Sherlock nodded brusquely. “She's the last remaining piece of the incident. As long as there's an investigation, she's connected, at least in some capacity. Even if she's just under protection, she traces back to the investigation. Someone wants her found.”

Lestrade's head tilted thoughtfully, his brow creasing in an air of cautious disbelief. “And that's why you didn't tell her? Didn't want to scare her?”

“I originally thought it might comfort her to know what was happening. I changed my mind.”

“And this has nothing to do Mycroft's orders, despite your usual tendency to disobey him?”

“I am disobeying. I'm keeping her involved.”

Lestrade gave a short, gruff chuckle. “She doesn't seem to know that. Not to mention, she seems a little unhappy that you're keeping secrets.”

Sherlock's face twisted in discontent. “I'm not concerned about keeping her  _happy_ with me. She'll learn.”

A small creak in the door frame caused the men to turn sharply, tongues falling quickly into silence. Alexis leaned against the frame by her shoulder, swirling a small mug of coffee in her left hand. Lestrade's mouth pulled taunt as he scratched the skin by his ear awkwardly, the uneven stubble scratching against his finger. “How long have you been there?” he asked carefully, barely attempting the gruff authoritative tone he usually relayed.

“Oh, calm down, I already know you talk about me when I'm not around.” She walked with a brisk pace to Sherlock, holding the cup of coffee impatiently next to his arm. “Better drink this quick, Molly wants you downstairs in the morgue as soon as you can.”

Sherlock's gaze shot to Alexis's face skeptically. “How exactly do you know Molly on a first name's basis, pray tell?”

“She happens to drink coffee too, Einstein. She recognized me in the break room and told me to pass on the message. Turns out that your lot's gossip is a real good icebreaker.”

Sherlock's fingers curled around the surface of the cup. “And what is downstairs that is so urgent? Did she say?”

“Oh, for God's sake. Since when do you ask first and shoot later?” Her voice feigned sarcasm, but the bitter undertones were difficult to miss. Sherlock's brow furrowed in response.

“What is it?” he pressed again, his tone barely softening from behind clipped teeth.

Alexis took a short breath through her nose, mouth tightening as she released the coffee slowly. She met his gaze with a somber expression. “We found our number three.”

* * * * * *

She always expected the area around the morgue to be colder. The air in the hallway seemed sterile, but it always flushed unexpectedly lukewarm in Alexis's nostrils when she followed Sherlock and Dr.Watson here. She may have just been excited—she half-expected Sherlock to order her to stay in the office while the men investigated Molly's query. Alexis hardly dared to breath too loudly, lest the noise remind them that she didn't quite belong there. She did notice—with only a slight twinge of relief—that she wasn't the only one who had trouble keeping up with Sherlock's brisk pace; Dr. Watson and the inspector were struggling to match Sherlock's excited gait. More than once, Alexis amused herself with the thought of gripping the tail of Sherlock's coat and having him drag her along—knowing him, he'd probably barely notice the extra weight while his mind was aflutter.

Alexis felt a small tap on her shoulder, and turned incredulously to see Lestrade nudging close to her as they walked. He had that same expression on his face, the one he always had when he approached her; he attempted to pull his features into a comforting arrangement, but he seemed utterly unsure on how to go about it. He always seemed afraid that he'd accidentally break her—at this point, Alexis was more bemused by it than annoyed. “Oy,” he urged, the effort behind that single syllable almost laughable. His eyes gaged his reaction without a hint of an attempt to mask it.

“Yeah?”

Lestrade jerked his head in Sherlock's direction. “You don't have to be his barista, y'know.”

Alexis's eyebrow creased into her forehead. “Um...okay?”

“Seriously, though. Don't let him bully you. He may be smart, but he doesn't piss gold.”

Sherlock released a stiff sigh. “I don't think my urine is relevant here, Inspector.”

Lestrade chuckled gruffly. “She has a right to know, Sherlock. Someone's got to fill her in on how to deal with you when you're a gigantic prat, and I clearly didn't do a good enough job of that.” The inspector turned back to Alexis apologetically. “Some days, he's all right. Other days, he's a big whiny baby that we keep in alarming proximity to firearms.”

John cracked a silent grin at that statement. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but refused to glance back at the Inspector with a withering glare. Lestrade noticed the sudden tightness in Sherlock's shoulders, and gave a small half-smile. He nudged Alexis with his elbow and pointed to Sherlock's back. “Stuff that scarf in his mouth if he gets to be too much. We all have to take his lip—you don't. He has to be nice to you.”

Alexis snorted. “Did anybody tell him?”

That retort made Sherlock throw a sharp glance over his shoulder, nostrils twitching slightly. Alexis met his eyes briefly, her brow raising slightly at his reaction. His mouth tightened thoughtfully, his steps slowing slightly as he pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. “For all you know, Inspector, I have the kindness of a saint when you're not around.”

Lestrade and John snorted unabashedly. Sherlock's frown deepened at the skeptical sound, his eyes flickering back to Alexis again. Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“Discerning whether I should say what I'm thinking.”

“Since when did you start filtering what you say?” Alexis rolled her eyes. “If you tell me I got your coffee wrong, Sherlock, I swear to God...”

“I hate coffee. It wouldn't have made a difference anyway.”

“That's comforting.”

Sherlock's shoulder tilted towards her. “Is comforting good? Evidently, I should be nicer to you.”

“Well, that would just be weird.”

Sherlock gives a small grin at the affirmation in her voice. The conversation lulled as they approached the pale door to the morgue; the intensity of Sherlock's sudden focus practically sharpened the air. His long hand wrapped around the handle and threw the door open with precise movements, the others following the flaps of his coat as Sherlock sauntered into the room comfortably. Molly Hooper stood beside a large gray table, raising light eyes that blazed in her pale face beneath copper strands of hair pulled tightly against her scalp. Her stature straightened as Sherlock entered, his chin lifting at the sight of her. “You sent for me, Molly?”

Molly gripped the corner of the covering on the table, nodding stiffly. “You need to see this.”

“You have my attention.”

With a rustle of plastic, Molly gently peeled back the covering, and Sherlock's gaze fell to the subject at hand. Lestrade and Dr. Watson stood back a few paces, giving a wide breadth of distance from the table at first. Alexis had stepped forward to get a better view, her curiosity getting the best of her. She was still a few feet behind Sherlock, hesitant to encroach on his territory. Beyond the elbow of Sherlock's sleeve, Alexis felt her throat tighten at the sight.

The figure on the table seemed utterly naked without its black plastic cocoon of a body bag, even with the sheet pulled around the slender legs. The exposed gray skin blended in with the slab beneath it. The sight of dead bodies usually never sickened Alexis in the past, but a heavy weight settled in her stomach when her eyes fell onto the corpse on the table. The body was a young boy, his lanky frame eclipsed by the length of the table; he couldn't have been any more than nine years old. His eyes looked like they'd open at any moment within his fragile face, which seemed peaceful besides the nasty gash that had crushed in the right side of his forehead. The area around the wound had been shaved; the rest of his brown, fluffy hair still swirled around his skull in a wild mane. Old bruises and scars traced down across his sallow skin, and his ribcage pulled the skin taunt around his torso, testaments of an uneasy life. Beneath his collarbone, three long slashes were carved deeply into his stomach, barely held together by large, messy stitches. Alexis heard Dr. Watson release a tight breath beside her, the anger stiffening the muscles in his face at the sight of the small boy on the table.

Sherlock stepped forward, his eyes darting across the body. “Family?” he asked Molly shortly.

Molly frowned sympathetically. “He doesn't seem to have any—we're still trying to find a positive ID, but he doesn't match any missing persons reports, and no one's come to claim him.”

“A runaway—most likely from out of town. Thought someone might recognize him, though.” He straightened his shoulders. “He's been on his own for two years, based on the state of his wounds and his body fat percentage. Where was he found?”

“By the train tracks just outside the city . There's been some rough activity around those parts—the officers seemed to think he was mugged and killed during the attack.”

“Mugged for what? He didn't have anything to steal, anyone could tell that just by looking at him.” Sherlock glanced to the wounds in the boy's stomach. “Not your best needlework, I must say.”

“I didn't do that to him.” Molly crossed her arms as she stood on the opposite end of the table. “He came to me like that—someone tried to help him themselves.”

“I doubt it was out of the goodness of their hearts.”

“Whatever their motives, they stitched him up in a hurry, and they did it before he died. The officers thought whoever attacked him did it, and gave up once it was too late, abandoned the body.”

“So they think someone smashed in his head, disemboweled him, then said 'oops' and tried to play doctor?” Sherlock chuckled. “The fantasies that enter the heads of our fine police force.”

Molly's gaze narrowed as she tightened her arms across her chest, wrinkling the white labcoat. “The wounds on his chest—they're the same message as the last two, right?”

“It would seem so. Five, four, three—this would appear to be the latest victim in our countdown.”

Molly glared, the expression souring her face. “Sherlock, you're giddy.”

“Of course.” Sherlock raised his eyes to meet Molly's unimpressed expression. “Not. Of course not.”

“Nice try.”

Sherlock swiveled towards Alexis, eyes sparking knowingly over his shoulder. He bent his neck to beckon her closer, the curls of dark hair barely shifting on his forehead.“Thoughts?”

Alexis swallowed numbly, focusing on the sensation in her tongue to quell her harsh heartbeat as she stepped forward to stand beside Sherlock. He turned his body to accommodate her, watching her carefully. The air felt colder here, her hips now mere inches from the mangled corpse that appeared so peaceful. Her skin prickled under the denim of her jeans. “ Well,” she started unsurely, “the cause of death is different, the type of victim is different. Is there anything to show it's the same person—the knife used, fingerprints, anything?”

Sherlock noted the strain in her voice with curiosity. At the previous crime scenes, she hadn't shown any indications of being queasy; the gruesome spectacle of those victims had more angered than unsettled her. The calm sight of this deceased youth outright unnerved her. His eyes narrowed as Molly shook her head, the ponytail clasped beneath her ear shaking with the movement. “They're all different, except for the countdown markings. Nothing definitive that leads us to a suspect right away.”

Alexis glanced to Sherlock out of the corner of her eye, attempting to give an expression that even remotely resembled something that could be mistaken for confidence. Every word out of her mouth seemed at risk for making her look foolish. “Is there a pattern in location, then? Or something in the victims' history that connects them?”

“Nothing obvious,” Sherlock quipped. “Different backgrounds, different ages, different secrets—they were all vulnerable, not unlike thousands of others in this city. It could be different killers, but I doubt it—the time frame is too compressed, not enough time to foster a fanatic yet. The wounds are consistent with a single individual, strong enough to overpower a single victim at a time, but not without some kind of struggle. Chances are, our killer is just perfectly opportunistic.”

He looked to her with a satisfied grin, hands linked behind his back. His tongue fell in his mouth when he saw her attention fixated back onto the body, her pale lips pressed together urgently. Her eyes darted from the stitched wounds to the boy's scalp and finally to the boy's face, where she seemed to be struggling not to wince. The gore seemed to irk her less than the sight of the boy's sleepy expression. Her body had noticeably tensed, arms clasped protectively across her waist in an attempt to look thoughtful. Perhaps he had overestimated her ability to quell the urge to connect with the victims; there was no room for sentimentality in this room. It took practice—he had forgotten how the chill of the morgue felt so much different compared to the heated adrenaline of a crime scene. He cleared his throat lowly.

“You know where the vending machines are?”

Molly glanced skeptically to Sherlock, surprised that such an unusual statement had left the detective's mouth in the midst of a case. Lestrade gave a knowing groan. “Sherlock, don't—”

Alexis nodded uncertainly, equally hesitant. “Well, yeah, why?”

“I'm starving. Grab me something.”

Alexis's eyebrow angled into her forehead. “You're going to eat? In here?”

“I'm hardly going to be snacking while digging through internal organs, I'm sure it'll be fine.”

A moment of silence passed while Alexis tried to comprehend Sherlock's subtly defiant gaze. The tone was different than his candor in the office; the abrasiveness was too light, too forced. The impatience had sapped from his voice—she couldn't call it sympathy, but he at least refused to pander to her discomfort outright. Damn, guess it had been that obvious; everything was obvious to this man. Alexis sighed tightly; she felt a slight prick of irritation at playing fetch again, but she also recognized the poor attempt at casual conversation, and she was admittedly a little grateful for the excuse to step out. “Can't have you fainting from starvation in here, I guess. What do you want?”

“Grab me anything, I'm not picky.”

“You are the epitome of picky.”

“Less talk, more vending.” He gestures dismissively with his hand. “Don't get lost on your way back.”

“No promises.” Alexis spun on her heel, taking a slow breath through her nose in order to steady her nervous lungs. She hoped the expression on her face seemed more assured than she felt. A genuine smile twitched at her lips at the sight of Lestrade's exasperated face; he made a gesture that Alexis assumed was meant to represent a scarf, but she stepped past him before she could see him finish the thought. She felt Dr.Watson's eyes warm the curve of her shoulder as she passed him—he probably noticed the flushed face, the darting eyes, the nervous movements. He was much more observant than Sherlock gave him credit for; signs of distress would certainly alert the medical training engrained into his mind. She kept her stare trained in front of her, resisting the urge to glance at him and possibly betray her nerves. The last thing she needed to do was vomit, and the sick sweetness was already climbing in her throat. The room fell quiet until the door had innocuously swung shut behind her, and the floor squeaked beneath Molly's heel as she turned stiffly to Sherlock.

“What the hell was that?”

“Believe it or not, kindness.” Sherlock met Molly's eyes briefly, and her mouth pulled into a reluctant but obligatory frown.

* * * *

The lights seemed ridiculously bright out here. Alexis was glad no one had followed her out into the hallway—her uneasiness had dissipated slightly, but now she struggled to walk a straight line by navigating through squinted eyes. Not her proudest moment, as she curled her hands around her eye sockets in a meager attempt to not collide into a wall. Thankfully, she only had to stumble in one direction in order to reach the vending machine at the end of the hallway. As long as she didn't crash into an unsuspecting passerby on her simplified route, she'd be fine. Once she was able to decipher blurry objects through the film of moisture on her retinas, Alexis could make out a tall, black box pressed against the pale paint of the wall. She took a few more hasty paces before lifting her arm, hesitantly stretching out her hand. The hard surface of the vending machine quivered warmly under her palm, familiarly humming with the churn of groaning electricity. She blinked a few more times to clear her sight before she raised her view to the illuminated glass.

Oh, choices. Why did he encourage her to make choices for him? She'd barely seen him eat, she didn't know his taste. Hell, he probably wasn't even hungry—chips or pastries, it didn't matter to him anyway. She scrounged some loose wrinkled cash from her pants pocket—leftovers from Sherlock's contribution—and smoothed it in her fingers quickly before inserting it into the machine, which swallowed it noisily. She punched a random combination of numbers into the keys with her knuckle, not really committed to whatever selection she had made. A brightly-colored bag of chips—or were they crisps here?--fell to the bottom of the machine. Whelp, hopefully Sherlock liked vinegar. She stepped back slightly to grab his lunch before her phone began to vibrate violently in her pocket.

She paused—hardly anyone reached this phone, besides the people just down the hall. The device continued to shake; this wasn't even the usual text message. Someone was actively calling her phone—perhaps Mycroft? Alexis yanked out her phone to check the screen, astounded that she even had service down here. The caller on the screen was unfamiliar to her, a random string of anonymous numbers that she didn't recognize. Hesitantly, she hit the button with her thumb and held the device to her face. “Hello...?”

A slight sound of breath, and then the line clicked dead. Alexis drew the phone back away from her ear indignantly, staring at the string of numbers that still lingered on the screen. Her mouth pulled into a frown as she bent from her hips, reaching her hand through the stiff black door to retrieve Sherlock's meal while keeping her eyes locked on her phone screen. She straightened with the chips in hand, fingers grasping around the pocket of air still confined in the plastic. Perhaps it had been the wrong number—some people got embarrassed by that, and maybe the sound of her voice had probably confirmed their mistake. She shrugged, moving to shove the phone back into her pocket before the device shuddered in her palm once again.

A quick movement this time—a text message. She tilted the device to see, and an unread message from the same number glowed tauntingly on the screen. No words—just a file attachment that looked like a video. The white “play” arrow in the middle of the black box glimmered innocuously. She frowned at her screen, contemplating whether she should ignore the message entirely. It could be a prank—the video certainly seemed low quality. She dragged her thumb across the screen and paused, her curiosity getting the better of her. With a tap, the video flashed on the display and shuddered into full view.

The footage was dark and shaky—if it hadn't been for the obnoxious sounds of the camera's rustling movements, she might not have known the video had even started. White noise blasted through her phone's weak speakers and light trickled into the footage. The person behind the camera was breathing heavily as he walked, circling to get a better view of shadowed objects which Alexis couldn't distinguish. The camera angled upwards, and the image illuminated faintly on the screen made the hairs rise coldly on Alexis's neck.

The chips dropped from her hand, the plastic crinkling softly as they collapsed to the floor. She knew that structure—a pale hallway light outlined the entry of a hallway as the camera approached. The last time she had seen the arch of that hallway, it had been suspended on the waves of the Atlantic. She had walked on that carpet hundreds of times to get to her bunk—she could practically feel the fibers beneath her feet. The lack of other life in the video worried Alexis greatly; even late at night, there was usually some signs of activity from other people. Only the consistent, rough breaths of the cameraman narrated the footage. Before the person entered the hallway, the footage squealed and flashed on the screen in a violent glitch. Lines of static clawed across the display with a howl as the pixels chafed with electronic snow. Between the waves of harsh gray shudders, faint images trembled across the screen like phantoms. They only appeared for an instant at a time, seemingly spliced from later in the clip to haunt their predecessors. Different hallways scrambled into view, and the white silhouettes of fleeing people speckled the screen. The audio was broken and screeching incomprehensibly, but even the incoherent noise conveyed the raw panic raking through the images. One last distorted scream roared monstrously through the speakers before video came to an abrupt halt and died. The white “play” arrow reappeared over the gray, cracked outline of a blurred face.

Alexis hardly dared to breathe. She pressed the arrow again numbly, hoping that she had hallucinated the video's contents. She tried to find any hints that the footage was fake, that she was mistaken.The more she looked, the heavier her lungs sank in her chest. She could still taste the salt in the darkness that seemed so harmless in the pixels. The video ultimately showed very little, but the visuals reverberated darkly behind her eyes; the sounds were thin compared to the ones in her memory. The video growled to a stop once again, and the morgue hallway echoed hollowly with silence.

“I can explain that.”

Alexis's face snapped upright to see Lestrade and Dr.Watson standing down the hallway from her at a safe distance. The inspector's face was tight with concern, the lines in his cheeks deep with guilt that he poorly tried to mask. His eyes flickered to the device in her hand with an expression tweaked in recognition of the audio that had died from the speakers. Alexis watched him carefully as his lips parted hesitantly, struggling to form words that wouldn't draw her ire. Her eyes narrowed as her mouth dropped to say something, but she paused suddenly as her phone chimed in her hand once again. She dropped her stare to the screen once again, and her suddenly fingers gripped the device tightly at the sight. “Oh my God.”

Her voice was soft and fragile with fear. Immediately John's brow furrowed in concern—he had never heard her so terrified. Even with her prior tendency to appear meek, this seemed different, more vulnerable. Her eyes were fixated on the screen, the color drained from her already pale cheeks. Her knees trembled beneath her to the point where John was worried she'd crumble onto the tile floor. With a few brisk paces he stepped forward with as outstretched hand, grasping her shoulder firmly to stabilize her. His stout palm felt stern on her limb, anchoring her to the floor in an attempt to keep her secure. With the other hand he reached for the phone, gently slipping it from her palm. He tipped the device to read the bright message that was darkly scripted on the screen. A single word blazed across the green display:

  _Gotcha ;)_

 


	10. The Bleeding Wound

 Alexis thought she had seen Dr. Watson angry before. She was wrong. Within the quiet confines of the taxi cab, the doctor's glare was excruciating as it bore into Sherlock's cheeks. Sherlock refused to turn his head to address it, instead pressing his lips tightly in thought. Alexis sat between them, wondering if she could press any closer into the seat cushion behind her. “It's him, isn't it?” Dr. Watson barked.

Sherlock didn't reply—he hadn't spoken since Lestrade had shown him the phone back into the laboratory. Sherlock had glanced to the number, and with a swift goodbye to Molly he had silently led the others out of the room. The quiet was bittersweet for Alexis; while she was grateful for the fact that she wasn't the target of pervasive questions, the silence also gave her far too much room to think, and thinking bred fear these days. Dr. Watson had grown angrier with every second of Sherlock's dismissive attitude, and Alexis was fantasizing about having the courage to ask him to switch her seats, simply so she didn't have to be in the middle of it.

“You can't play mute forever, Sherlock.”

“I'm not _playing_ anything,” Sherlock quipped back.

“Then answer the damn question.”

“I don't know.”

“Bullshit. Even if you didn't know something, you'd never be so quick to admit it.”

“Well, aren't you the expert.”

“How would Moriarty even get that number?”

“We don't know it's him, John. You're making assumptions.”

“Assumptions? _Assumptions_? Sherlock, look at her, she's terrified!”

“You're not exactly helping,” Sherlock snapped back through a stiff jaw, eyes dropping quickly to Alexis.

“Neither are you.”

Sherlock seemed offended by the statement, heavy brows furrowing in his tall forehead. “Excuse me for trying to show some emotional tact in this fragile situation—”

“Oh, just shut your fat mouth, Sherlock. Since when do you care about tact?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Both of you, hush!” Alexis growled sharply, her voice reverberating against the plastic sides of the interior. Both men fell silent and looked to her indignantly. She took a deep breath to steady herself, eyes squeezing shut in desperation. “Just....hush.” Alexis cradled her temples in her fingertips. “I vote for a change in subject.”

She felt Dr. Watson's gaze widen in exasperation on the cartilage of her ear. “But he just—!”

“Can we not argue for five whole minutes, please?” Her tone hardened bitterly as she refused to lift her eyes. “This is the last thing I want to talk about right now.”

“This seems like something that warrants a conversation.”

“I can hash that out, later. I just really, greatly, desperately need to talk. About. Something. Else.” She gripped the bridge of her nose and took another deep breath. “For the love of God, distract me. I'm begging you.”

The moment that followed her outburst felt dense with tension—while her voice was demanding and angry, it clearly was an attempt to contrast the anxiety swelling in her lungs. If she focused on this, she'd crumble, and that was the last thing she wanted to do after weeks of starting to build some sense of normalcy again. Sherlock and Dr. Watson met each others' eyes over the arch of her neck before Sherlock leaned back into the window with a small shrug. Dr. Watson turned back to the front of the taxi cab, his back still perfectly straight in frustration. Sherlock folded his arms and glanced out the shaded glass.

“So you're fine with mangled bodies at a crime scene, but put them in a morgue and you get antsy?”

Alexis rolled her eyes and sat back into the seat. “Oh, perfect. Naturally, that'd be what you choose.”

“You said change the subject.”

“I was thinking to something, y'know, pleasant.” A sharp stab of betrayal flooded Alexis' sternum; she thought Sherlock would continue to help keep the moment in the morgue between them. Apparently that silent understanding was not so secretive.

“Pleasant is relative.” Sherlock answered lightly. He paused thoughtfully. “It's not your fault, of course. Seeing the violence of a crime scene is much different than seeing the cold reality of the morgue. Death often has different impacts on people, and seeing it in various forms can take some time getting used to.”

“That's not it.” Alexis exhaled, her voice softening. Her teeth dragged over her bottom lip as she contemplated her next words. “It's just...he reminded me of Tiffany.”

Dr. Watson angled his jaw towards her, the fists in his lap loosening slightly. “Who's Tiffany?” he asked gently.

Alexis paused again, mulling over how much she could reveal. The name had rolled off her tongue so innocently, and now in retrospect, she wanted nothing more than to be able to say it again, especially after weeks of keeping it locked behind her lips. Part of her ached to spew everything that had spun through her brain like daggers in the morgue, if just to show others the cuts. “You all will probably just think I'm rambling again,” she responded with an insincere chuckle.

Dr. Watson's stare was relentless on her cheekbone. “Try us.”

Alexis glanced towards him, taking a slow breath to prepare herself to meet his gaze. His expression seemed genuine enough—he patiently kept his stare on hers, softening upon seeing the uncertainty in her own features. Alexis looked back between her knees with a small inhale. “She was the 'youth scientist' on the _Sayanara_ when I was there,” she answered clumsily, the words carefully tumbling from her tongue. “She got to travel with her aunt on the ship for a few weeks through some marine science outreach program in her school. She was the happiest ten-year-old you've ever met, was absolutely convinced that she'd be a veterinarian for people's pet whales one day.” The memory elicited a small smile that twitched on her face. The expression froze hollowly in her features, dropping suddenly as she swallowed. “She was next to me when they took over theship.” Her eyes fell to the gray carpet, her voice quieting. “She didn't make it.”

She heard Sherlock's coat squeak against the seat as his body angled towards her again. Was he sympathetic, incredulous, confused? She didn't dare raise her eyes to see; she wasn't sure what reaction she'd hope for from him. She didn't want pity from the man who prided himself on separating himself from such pesky emotions, but she also shamefully admitted that she wanted him, of all people, to believe her. She _needed_ him to believe her at this point. She held the breath until it seared in her lungs, focusing briefly on the pain to distract her. This was a thought process she couldn't afford to follow—these memories led down a dark path. Last time she had ventured on that path, doctors shoved needles into her arm. She forced a thin smirk, trying to muster the feeling behind it. “Great subject change, by the way.”

“It's not my fault that you get so hung up on these things,” Sherlock replied tonelessly. Alexis's eyes flickered to his face, which was still directed out the window.

“ _Hung up_? That's seriously what you're going to call it?”

“That seems as accurate as a description as any.”

Dr. Watson's frustration had resurfaced behind her, the heat prickling at the material of Alexis' jacket. “Sherlock, this would be a great time for you to stop talking.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes indignantly. “First you're angry that I'm quiet, and now you're angry that I'm talking. Make up your mind already.”

The doctor's eyes narrowed dangerously. “Sherlock, I know you may be in one of your moods today, but this is going a bit too far.”

Alexis turned to Dr. Watson sharply, the nerves in her chest starting to boil bitterly with anger of her own. She tried not to take Sherlock's bait, but the off-hand comment had sliced through the remnants of her patience. “No, no, it's okay. You don't need to police him for me, I can handle the giant moody manbaby.”

Sherlock glared in disbelief. “Manbaby—?”

“Yes, manbaby, who decides that other peoples' emotions are too inconvenient, but then proceeds to throw his own temper on everyone else when it suits him.” Alexis whipped back to face Sherlock, who instinctively pressed closer into the door in response. Her angry movements were solid as they straightened the vertebrae in her spine. Her own ire had started to scald the pit of her ribs; she was used to bickering with Sherlock, but this dismissive attitude towards Tiffany had stirred fury that she had forgotten she possessed. Her eyes darkened defiantly as she held Sherlock's gaze.

“Have I struck a nerve?” Sherlock mused unapologetically, slightly bemused at her outburst. Her anger flared at the sight of his expression.

“You are just desperate to piss people off today, aren't you?” Alexis spat back. “It's just not a proper Wednesday to you if you can't start some sort of drama.”

“I hardly pursue _drama_ by choice.”

“Oh, please. You find those nerves one by one and just pluck away, because you're not comfortable unless someone hates you by the end of the day.”

His light eyes narrowed coldly. “Now who's the one eager start an argument?”

Her tongue grew heavy in her mouth, and it took all her strength to anchor it behind her teeth. “Just...fine. Forget it,” she growled lowly, sitting back into her seat with a forced inhale. The blood pumped loudly in her temple from the hushed anger that violently shook her heartbeat. Dr.Watson was watching her cautiously, although she was too focused on clutching to any sense of calmness to discern if he was nervous for her or still unimpressed with Sherlock.

“Evidently, you can't.”

“Sherlock, this would be a great time to quit flapping that mouth of yours,” Alexis snarled warningly.

“If you're going to assimilate back into the real world, you'll have to accept some of these realities. If the sight of a perfectly good corpse makes you weak at the knees, perhaps I need to reconsider conditioning you as an assistant.”

Alexis gaped at him. “I cannot believe you are dense enough to believe that is the problem here.”

“Is it not?”

“No, you self-centered prat, it's not!”

“Resorting to insults, now, are we?” Sherlock raised an amused eyebrow. “Someone is clearly feeling self-assured today.”

“My God, you're delusional.”

“Actually, I'm quite in touch with the facts. It would seem that you're the one disillusioned here, if you still believe that caring for people enough will absolve them from any harms. There's a fresh new body in St. Bart's that would vehemently disagree with you on that front.”

Alexis released a huff of disbelief from between her teeth. The nerve of this man had clawed through the remaining scraps of her self control.“You think I don't know that bad things happen to good people? I'm not an idiot!”

“Bad things happen to everyone, in case your time on the _Sayanara_ wasn't sufficient to clue you in. If you're still under the impression that there are purely good people in this world, it's about time you learned the difference.”

Alexis paused, taking in a breath that scalded her tongue. Hearing the name of that ship fall so casually from his teeth stoked the white heat in her chest. “No one on that ship deserved to die,” she snarled lowly.

“Perhaps not; however, no one on that ship is exempt from their own mortality, it was only a matter of when and how. It just so happened the circumstances of their deaths were a little more eventful than others.”

“ _Eventful_?” Alexis sputtered. “Is that all it is to you?”

“Of course it is, why do you think I was given this case? I took it because it interests me. That's the same reason I take all my cases.”

“No, you were _given_ babysitting duties and a to-do list from your older brother. From what I can tell, that's all you've been bothered to _take_ as well.”

Sherlock's eyes turned a dangerous sheen of glacial ice. “If we were going off of what your poor little mind could tell, we'd be blind to anything six inches from our noses.”

“Sherlock,” John growled warningly, his voice low. It was the first word he had been able to interject into the heated exchange. Sherlock seemed not to notice, barely twitching his jaw in John's direction.

Alexis returned the glare defiantly. “Then tell me, oh wise one, what miraculous revelations have you discovered, hm? You could probably tell me the life history of the dirt under my nails, but you don't have any damn idea about anything that happened on that ship.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes exasperatedly. “It sank, you didn't, and a lot of people died. That's not an uncommon occurrence.”

“How about the bioweapon that the world's top criminal has been testing? Or better yet, how about the fact that his favorite guinea pig is still running around London?”

“That doesn't worry me.”

“Well of course it doesn't. That bastard isn't coming after _you!_ ”

The last word echoed off the interior of the cab, coming harshly off of Alexis's tongue. Sherlock paused, his long finger curling thoughtlessly on the material of his coat. Alexis could feel herself shaking—whether from anger or fear, she couldn't tell. She swallowed quickly, biting back to urge to sputter the obvious—she was afraid. She was afraid of James Moriarty, that dark-eyed man who had reveled her in such a saccharine voice. She was afraid of him like a child feared monsters beneath the mattress, purely and completely. She had feared him and what he could do more than she had feared dying in the frigid Atlantic. Now, more than ever, she was afraid—he was too close. That text message had confirmed her worst terror with one word; he was circling in on her again, and he _would_ find her. She could almost smell the spearmint on his breath behind white, dangerous teeth.

She struggled to keep her teeth from trembling around her words, tightening her fists until the skin stretched ghastly white across the bone. When she spoke again, her voice was barely louder than a whisper. “I know I wasn't sent to your flat because of what happened to me. I was sent here because of what I am, because of what that monster _made_ me. Mycroft doesn't give a shit about what I've been through, he targeted me because I'm the only thing stopping Moriarty from unleashing that _thing._ The moment he gets his hands on me, he'll decide it's time to play with his new favorite toy, and a lot more people are going to die.”

“A big, dramatic terrorism plot. Nothing I haven't seen before.” Sherlock settled back into his seat with a heavy frown. “What were you expecting me to do, hm? Swoop in and avenge all your friends? Be your knight in an overcoat to slay Moriarty for you?”

“I was expecting you to care,” Alexis replied slowly through clenched teeth.

“Well, there's your first mistake. Thinking I have that luxury.”

Alexis' nostrils flared as she took in a sharp breath, attempting to calm her lungs. The harsh words shouldn't have shocked her, but the anger that surged in her chest also pricked painfully; bitterly, she realized she had stupidly placed an ounce of trust in this man, and he had shattered it. He sighed, tipping his head into the crux of his hand. “You're disappointed.”

She heard the expressionless statement fall all too easily of his tongue. It almost seemed snide. She raised her eyes coldly. “I wouldn't be, if you weren't being so useless at this so-called game of yours,” she snarled.

His eyes sharpened dangerously at the venom in her voice, his mouth pulling into an incredulous, joyless smile. “Now you just—”

“Did you even figure out the recording yet?” Alexis snapped, cutting off his sentence before he could hiss it in its entirety.

The suddenness of the angry question made Sherlock pause, his grin dropping. “What are you—”

Alexis's lip curled in disgust. “The one from when they first found me, the one you listened to like a freaking mixtape, the one that you were oh-so-interested in—did you even figure out what I saying?”

“I hardly see why that's relevant right now.”

“Of course you don't, you don't see why it's relevant at all,” Alexis growled, pinching the bridge of her nose. “God, and you called me blind, the fucking nerve of you.”

“They're the delirious ramblings of an emaciated, dehydrated, stressed castaway; there's no point or purpose to them. A rhythmic chant that you clung to in order to distract yourself. There's no meaning to them, you can trust that I looked.”

“You weren't looking in the right places.” Alexis shut her eyes until the tender flesh of her eyelids screamed for mercy. Her feet felt like stone on the carpet. “Otherwise you might've found out about Tiffany Marie, or Angela Kasem, or Molly Drake. Or maybe you would've pieced together Rebecca Siu, Adam Riccheck, Jamie Sanders. Should I go on for you?”

The silence in the cab was deafening for a brief moment as Sherlock and John locked their eyes onto her. She could feel the heat of hostility cool into a cautious realization. “Names,” Sherlock said calmly, his voice still void of expression or the slant of a question. “An acronym, for names.”

“They're the names of every single person on that boat that sunk to the bottom of the ocean.” When Alexis raised her eyes, the fury that she had tried to swallow down took hold of her tongue. “Should I go on for you, Mr. Holmes? Because there's 164 of them! One hundred and sixty four names that I burned into my brain while I was tried not to drown, one hundred and sixty four names that I made _sure_ I didn't forget.”

She could see Dr.Watson's form tighten to brace himself, afraid to twitch a muscle as her anger washed over the interior of the car. Her voice swelled to echo roughly off the plastic walls and sunk into every crevice. “You know why? Because in all the time I've been here, no one has asked about any of those names, not a single one. You didn't, Mycroft didn't, the police didn't, the doctors didn't.” Her teeth flashed white behind her lips as her voice rose; her eyes remained fixated on Sherlock's face. “One hundred and sixty four people didn't make it to port, and yet because of what happened on that ship, those people don't even get a proper burial. The fact that these people even _existed_ is suddenly a big secret. You didn't even have to care that they're dead, but you were more than willing to let them disappear like everyone else. You didn't even _try_.” She paused, inhaling a hot breath. “You don't have a give a single damn about those names, Sherlock, and I know you don't. You don't have to give them a second thought, but it doesn't change the fact that they are all I can fucking _think_ about, because I'm the only one left who will bother to remember them. So pardon me, then, for interrupting your precious process!”

Her fingers were numb from her incessant grip, but the heat in her sternum still burned her esophagus. She hadn't meant to lose control, and had only succeeded in making herself look foolish. The doctor's eyes barely blinked as he watched her as one would watch a wounded animal; the pity in his expression scalded her almost as much as his fear. Sherlock's face hadn't changed, but the muscles in his throat had tightened, his eyes perhaps a fraction wider. The air felt heavy in her lungs, and the weight that had anchored her to the carpet in her furor had now suddenly lifted. Every fiber in her legs now quivered anxiously with the urge to run. She placed a hand forcefully on the hard material in front of her. “Stop the cab,” she snarled quickly, eyes now fixated on the floor.

The driver obediently pulled the vehicle towards the sidewalk as Alexis ignored the indignant stares of the men beside her. If nothing else, she wanted to be out of this confining car,; she was desperate to get out from under the stares of these men. Once the cab had slowed to a stop, she arched her body over Dr.Watson's knees to unlatch the door and shoved it open with a heavy movement, slipping over his lap urgently while trying not to accidentally slam her limbs into his face. Her flesh burned in the anticipation of one of the men grabbing her to hold her in place, but neither one did as she clumsily pushed herself out into the frigid air that filled her hardened lungs.

“Where do you think you're going?” Sherlock barked behind her. She heard the seat groan as he leaned forward quickly, the flesh between her shoulder-blades searing under his gaze. She heard Dr.Watson rustle as he moved towards his flatmate.

“Let her go, Sherlock.”

“But she's—!”

“She'll be back, Sherlock. Let her get some air, for God's sakes.”

Alexis stepped back onto the sidewalk, the air algid in her unbuttoned coat. Sherlock lowered his head to watch her beneath the rim of the doorframe. “What are you going to do, walk home? You're in the middle of London, you're only going to get lost again,” he urged forcefully.

“Your little bitch of Baker Street will get home fine,” Alexis spat angrily, leaning on her heel as she slammed the cab door and tapped the exterior of the cab for good measure. The vehicle groaned to life and pulled forward out from under her palm, turning to assimilate into the light stream of traffic that churned on the streets. She expected the car to wrestle out from the pattern almost immediately, but it seemed that neither Sherlock or Dr.Watson gave the command. Good—the last thing she needed was to be stuffed back into that car. She spun on her heel, looking for another direction to start walking. The winter air crackled in her throat as she sucked in a deep mouthful. Her heartbeat still echoed in her ears as her eyelids stung—it might have been the chill, or the stress had finally squeezed a few desperate tears from her. She wiped at it angrily with her sleeve, walking hastily across the street once traffic had parted. For once she was grateful for the indifferent eyes of the pedestrians that trickled down the street past her shoulders. They gave her little notice, giving barely any second glances at the girl that felt horribly out of place. Perfect—she didn't need or want their pity, only their presence as camouflage. She knew Sherlock's stare must have been locked on her from the cab window as he watched her hurried and flustered departure. The dry flesh of her mouth tasted bitter as she refused to turn her head back towards the road, instead training her eyes on the pale sidewalk as she wove between the other commuters making their way down the pavement.

Oh God, she was stupid. Even while still inebriated with anger, she felt the sting of shame start to creep between her ribs. It had been a while since she had lashed out in stubbornness like that—it never panned out well, but it was so sweet in the moment. She would probably have to suck it up and apologize once she got back to Baker Street, whenever that might be. Sherlock's wrath wasn't worth whatever traces of pride she had left—she knew that much. Still, she was ashamed of herself for letting him wound her so easily. Guess it shouldn't have surprised her—after all that timing of wanting him to believe her, he finally did. He just didn't really care. It wasn't fair of her to expect him to, anyway, but it still served as a painful reminder that it was her burden to bear. She suddenly felt a whole lot more lonely about the whole thing.

Her surroundings were deceptively calm around her, and had faded into a lull in her ears. She didn't hear the quickened panicked footsteps to her right, or the intensely heavy movements of the figure next to her. Her gaze had been fixated on her own feet when a person suddenly appeared next to her in the crowd and barreled into her shoulder. Immediately she pivoted from the collision, unable to react or catch herself before her body slammed into the brick wall on her left with painful force. Her vision blurred as the rough surface of the brick indented into her forehead, and her limbs weakened for a brief moment before she collapsed to the sidewalk in a wave of black.

* * * *

 

“Wakey wakey, kiddo.”

The voice was unfamiliar to Alexis—it grated uncomfortably in her head. She groaned as she turned her head, consciousness eking back painfully and slowly. Her forehead ground against the hard surface of pavement which scratched rough lines into her skin. The concrete was cold and seemed to have numbed her flesh while she still lay on the ground. She curled her shoulders in an attempt to place her her hands beneath her chest, the movements stiff and achingly difficult. Memories came back into her wakening brain—was she still on the sidewalk? Her temple seared where it had collided with the brick surface. She felt forceful fingers grip her jaw and yank her face upright, flooding her half-lidded eyes with dull, painful light.

“Shame about your face. I don't usually get pretty ones.”

The fingers released their grip, and Alexis shifted onto her back. She twisted her face until her cheek felt the ground again and blinked a few times, trying to correct her vision without the pool of light in her face. The first thing she noticed was the lack of noise—where was the bustle of people, the growl of traffic? “What happened?” she mumbled, hoping her heavy tongue could actually articulate proper words, and some sort of concussion hadn't scrambled her speech.

“Had an accident. People are so funny about accidents, you'd think they'd get used to 'em. Shoulda seen them all fuss over you—looked at me like I was a monster for running into you like that.”

Alexis groaned as she curled a hand beneath her shoulder. “Am I bleeding?”

“Nah, you stopped doin' that about a half hour ago.”

“Half...half an hour ago?” Alexis rolled onto her side with a pained grunt, the muscles protesting beneath her. “I've been here that long?”

“Well, yeah. After I tripped over my two left feet and made you kiss the sidewalk, you took a little nap.”

Alexis felt a shadow cast its chill over her as someone knelt next to her. Her ribs suddenly felt constraining as she tried to breathe under this person's gaze. Her eyes snapped open to see the rough fabric of dirtied pants stretched over a broad knee by her face. Her fingers scratched across the floor—this didn't feel like the familiar coarse pavement. Smooth, cheap flooring pulled against the pads of her fingers, crinkling slightly under her touch. The lines pressed into her skin; it felt like wood, splintering into her flesh when she dragged across it. “Where am I?” she croaked quietly.

“Well, I had to take care of you, you know. Promised everyone I'd take you to the hospital to get checked out—faster for me to take ya than to call an ambulance out there. Those people may not have liked me, but they certainly had no problem with me offerin' to take you. People get so funny when it doesn't have to be their problem anymore.”

Alexis pressed her weak arms into the floor, starting to raise herself from the frigid damp surface. “Where am I?” she asked again, this time more forcefully. She heard a rustle to her left as the person silently stood, his shadow wrapping around the small of her back. He regarded her for a brief moment before his body jerked in sudden movement, his heavy foot slamming into Alexis's side with crushing force. Alexis collapsed back onto her stomach with a broken gasp, her sight eclipsed with pained spots of colors.

“We took a detour.”

He nudged her with the toe of his boot, shoving her onto her back go better see her face. She struggled to inhale, fleshing quivering under his sole before he calmly retracted his foot again.“There she is,” the voice chuckled, the light masculine tone much too casual for her taste. “Apparently the taste of brick wall makes you sleepy. Or could be the drugs I leant ya in the cab, kind of a toss up.”

Alexis coughed violently as the man knelt by her again. She raised her eyes as she attempted to quell the shaking in her chest that racked her body. Even if she were knowledgable about the area, she still wouldn't have known where they were—the room surrounding her looked like any typical abandoned warehouse. Carnage from old carpentry was scattered into the corners, barely illuminated by the tall windows that encircled the immense room near the ceiling. She strained her ears to hear any signs of life outside, but couldn't hear anything over the hiss of the winter breeze groaning through the empty walls. Wherever this person had taken her, he had chosen carefully. She twisted her face to see him out of the corner of her eyes—the weak lights around his face obscured his features, but not by much. A gaunt face smiled at her from beneath a ratty baseball cap, lined with weary age. His clothes hung poorly from his stocky body, the material thick and rigid to protect him from the elements. He looked like the type of man who labored hard for his salary, adorned in clothing that hid his worn figure. His green eyes were rimmed with red; they seemed too watery and gentle to belong to him. Wisps of short graying hair jutted from beneath the rim of his hat, circling his head like a jagged wreath.

He clicked his tongue softly behind his teeth. “Oh, don't look at me like that. Doe eyes won't help you.”

Alexis swallowed, her stomach flinching in fierce pain where his foot had struck her. “The hell do you want from me?” she demanded through clenched teeth. She pressed her palms by her side to push herself across the dusty floor in an attempt to put distance between them. He shrugged, the material of his jacket seemingly heavy on his shoulders.

“Nothing personal, doll. Honestly just wanted to see if I could do it. I mean, carrying you off in public in plain daylight, and no one suspects anything? God, the adrenaline rush gave me such a hard-on.”

“Someone will suspect something.” Alexis struggled to keep her voice was quivering as she raised her chest with a wince. “They'll come after you once they do.”

“Let 'em. Even if they know where to find me, I ain't jitterin' in my boots.”

“You wanna get caught?”

“It'd be nice to be appreciated.” He gave a short, wrinkled wink. “Either way, I'm not cryin' at the end of the day.” He stepped forward casually and reached into his pants pocket, pulling out a small pocket knife which he unsheathed with a click. “You're an odd one. They usually start shouting for help by now.” His chest rumbled with a deep chuckle. “Guess you've figured out there's none comin''.”

The sound of the blade sent a chill through Alexis's chest. Her heart squeezed with a sharp sting of fear, the adrenaline surging through her body and flooding through her veins. She shoved her feet beneath her hips and stumbled backwards in an attempt to get upright; her legs stiffened beneath her with an overwhelming urge to run. The man never changed pace, seizing the girl's arm and throwing her roughly back onto the floor. His leg swung again in a quick fearsome arc, smashing into the pit of her stomach and crushing the air from her lungs. She tasted blood on her tongue as her head spun with painful static. Her arms raised blindly as he dropped to his knees on top of her, pinning her shoulders under his limbs and tossing her arms to the side in disgust. His knees dug into the tissues of her chest as he locked her flailing arms beneath his ankles. The knife gleamed in his hand. Alexis thrashed her body with all the force she could muster, desperately kicking beneath his weight to no avail. She couldn't bruise him with her kicks, or claw at his skin, or even bite though the coarse material of his pants; as much as she wanted to hurt him, she couldn't. The feeling of bitter helplessness swelled in her throat as he roughly pinned her head to the floor, moving her shirt out of the way to expose her collarbone. He lowered the knife slowly with the concentration of a surgeon, and Alexis could no longer swallow back her whimper.

The edge of the knife bit into her skin and immediately elicited bright beads of blood. She expected him to carve deeply into her flesh, but the fang never dug into her chest cavity. He drew across the thin skin beneath her throat as if he handled a pen, carefully two parallel vertical slits that extended neatly towards her sternum. Once he was satisfied with the length, he framed the marks with two horizontal slits that formed a trim “II” symbol in her chest. He grinned proudly at his word, which had just begun to bleed in a light crimson smear. “There's step one,” he announced gruffly, leaning back slightly to sit directly on her ribcage. She felt her flesh bruise beneath his weight as he reached into his shirt pocket, retrieving a small cylindrical syringe; he tore the plastic cap off the needle with his teeth and spat it clumsily onto the floor. “Now for step two,” he mused to her, ignoring her shout of protest as he gripped her ear tightly and plunged the needle into her neck. Immediately the chemicals hit her brain and blurred her vision, any remaining strength in her limbs began to sap from her body. Her torso filled with an uncomfortable warmth that anchored her to the floor. “Don't cha worry, it's just more nap juice. Same cocktail I gave ya in the car—it'll take a while to hit you, but you'll be up in la-la land in no time.” He stood again, digging his knees into her chest against painfully in order to push himself back upright. “And don't you fret—you'll be awake to see my little finale.” His grin widened under the brim of his cap. “I can tell you're all in anticipation of step three.”

Alexis watched him walk a few paces, his shoulders comfortably slumped in his giddy gait. “Got a little creative with this one to celebrate,” he continued mindlessly, voice aquiver with eagerness. “After all, gotta celebrate a little bit, am I right? Life's too short to not try new things every once in a while.” He bent from the hips and scooped a bulky device into his right hand, lifting it playfully as he turned. “Borrowed a little something from our good friends here—don't think they'll mind too much.” He stepped into the light, a red power drill in his palm. He lowered his eyes briefly to load a sharp drill-bit into the machine. Once the metal tooth was secure in its sheath, he stopped next to her side, regarding her unapologetically as he tapped her elbow with his boot to angle her right hand towards the ceiling. He tapped the power tool in his hand with a thoughtful finger. “Can't have you scampering away, now, can we?” he crooned lightly, the shadow of his cap darkening his face.The heat of his breath enveloped her face as he knelt in front of her again. With a calm motion, he pressed the drill-bit fiercely into her open palm and pulled the trigger.

The pain was excruciating and immediate. Alexis's scream echoed off the hollow walls as she felt her flesh twist and rip, masticated as the man placed his bodyweight on the tool to shred though the bone. The whine of the drill shrieked deliriously, the pitch clashing against her own screams that rattled in her skull. Even the drugs couldn't dull the agonizing pain; they merely rendered her unable to squirm away from it. Every sensation—the chill of the hard floor against her bones, the tickle of the dust against her skin, the unraveling of her palm in gory petals—all echoed through her nerves in perfect clarity. Heat pooled in her shaking hand as her feet scraped uselessly across the floor to leave trails in the dust. The bit deeply pierced the floor beneath her hand, pinning her to the cold surface. The metal head of the bit dug into a tight crater within the mutilated skin of her palm; any attempts to pull against the bit sent daggers of searing pain through her arm that were severe enough to nearly send her into unconsciousness. With a final squeal, the blood-spattered drill died as he took his finger off the trigger.

He straightened slowly, surveying his work with a careful stare. “One's probably enough, eh?” he commented, grunting as he stood to his feet. “Didn't want too much gore in this one—leaves a different taste in the mouth.” He dropped the drill, which fell to the floor with a violent clatter. “Wanna take bets on what'll finish ya off? My money's on shock, although hypothermia, infection and dehydration are all pretty close contenders.” He shrugged. “Guess we'll find out when we send people out to get ya in a few days. I'll keep my eyes on the papers—wanna know if I was right.”

Alexis's hand trembled against its metal constraint as her head sunk more heavily into the floor. She felt the warmth in her torso grow, curling like suffocating vines into her ribcage. “Should probably go check on our driver friend—had to tie the poor guy up, his wrists are probably all chafed.” He removed a small black device that Alexis recognized as her phone. He regarded it with a frown. “Wonder if he'll want this useless thing—I never did get the hand of touch screens.” He spun on his heels, footsteps echoing as he headed towards the doors. “A little gift for his cooperation—well, that and threatening to butcher his family, but y'know. Details.”

The door swung open with a loud squeak. He paused in the doorway, turning so that Alexis could only see the blurred outline of his silhouette. He shouted a deceptively pleasant goodbye that scrambled incoherently in her brain, darkness creeping into the corners of her vision. The warmth in her torso had soaked into her spine and had found refuge within the confines of her skull. As he stepped into the gray outside world, Alexis choked one last plea for help on her heavy tongue. The door closed behind him, and darkness consumed her once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fights and violence. Yaaaaay.
> 
> Evidently give me some dramatic plot points and things to procrastinate on, and I can knock a chapter right out!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	11. Defiance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexis is missing, presumed to be angrily storming throughout London by the inhabitants of Baker Street. Mycroft plots to find her while Alexis plots her escape from the warehouse, which she must find soon before she loses too much strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's taking a while, so I'm releasing what I have so far. Winter break is upon us, so hopefully more to come soon!

Sherlock was used to people glaring at him. John practically made it a hobby, Lestrade seemed to have a permanent scowl twisted in his chin, and even Molly would narrow her eyes perniciously if he was being particularly obnoxious. However, the detective had yet to accustom himself to his landlady's dark glower. He could handle her usual fits—he was used to her getting flustered—but Mrs.Hudson's unimpressed expression felt unnatural as it scalded the fine hairs on his cheek. It wasn't a combustive anger; instead it would simmer under her papery skin as she stubbornly refused to admit she was upset, all while initiating every obvious act of passive-aggression in the book. Sherlock loathed this tactic; no matter how much he snubbed her methods, it eventually pricked past his defenses and made him guilty. He didn't do well with guilt—it was a useless, ridiculous, pervasive emotion. Highly inconvenient.

“She could be lying in a ditch somewhere, Sherlock.”

“Then I would be impressed that she found a suitable ditch in London,” Sherlock responded emotionlessly, sipping his tea before giving a bitter wince. She was pretending to forget how he took his tea again—much too sweet.

“I just can't believe you left her on the street like that. Out in the cold, too!”

“Oh, for goodness sakes, she's not some helpless puppy. She had enough time to dial her phone with frostbitten fingers if she truly needed help getting back.”

Mrs.Hudson pursed her lips, placing the empty tray on the kitchen table with a harsh clatter. “Your little jokes aren't funny, Sherlock. She hasn't been home all night. What must John think?”

“John is in one of his moods again,” Sherlock retorted, glaring into his saccharine tea. He settled into his cushion dismissively. “Besides, I was under the impression that young people regularly stayed out all night. Rite of passage, wild and free, that sort of thing.”

“I hardly think she was partying, Sherlock.”

“How do you know? It certainly sounds more fun than sleeping in a ditch.”

Mrs.Hudson folded her arms, locking her maternal scowl onto Sherlock's stubborn face. “I'm disappointed in you, Sherlock. You were getting along so nicely with her, and then you pull a stunt like this.”

Sherlock's brow furrowed indignantly. “What stunt?”

“Your little hissy fit in the cab.”

“You're hardly one to be lecturing about hissy fits.”

“You know what I mean. I mean, you've always had your little quirks. We're all used to you losing your manners now and again, but really, did you have to antagonize her so much?”

“Antagonize her—!”

“Pushed her buttons, didn't you? All because you had to be right. Is it always so important that you're right?”

“But I was.” Sherlock shrugged, placing his tea down in disgust.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head disapprovingly, the lines of her long neck arcing with the movement. “You're supposed to help her, Sherlock, not drive her completely up the wall.”

“Help her?” Sherlock threw his hands up exasperatedly, his voice hardening slightly. “That's all everyone tells me— _play nice, Sherlock; be a sport, Sherlock; don’t scare her, Sherlock;_ _you're supposed to help her, Sherlock—_ like that's supposed to elicit some sort of response from me.”

Mrs. Hudson’s mouth tightened as a sigh hissed through her nose. “You don't care?”

“Why would I? Of course I don’t.”

“I don't believe that.”

Sherlock paused at the firm assertion. “And why not?”

“Because you know.”

“Well, there's little that I don't, so that's kind of a broad statement.”

“Sherlock.”

“Fine, I'll bite.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What do I know?”

“That you're all that poor girl has left.”

The next moment was uncomfortably quiet. Sherlock shifted in his seat to cross his long legs. “The first word that comes to mind is _tragic_ ,” he quipped.

The outline of Mrs.Hudson's jawline stiffened. “Maybe,” she clipped back shortly. “But you can't fool me, mister. Deny it all you want, you're not entirely heartless. You never would've dragged her out to go crime-solving with you if you didn't care, at least a little.”

Sherlock's retort died in his mouth as the loud clack of footsteps sounded down the stairs. John rounded the corners, his shoulders pressed back with purpose as he pulled his jacket around them. “Going somewhere?” Sherlock asked lightly.

“We both are.” John tossed a small object into Sherlock's lap. Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the small device; John's worn cellphone always felt so rugged in his smooth palm. The screen was lit with a new message, which Sherlock read quickly with an increasingly furrowed brow.

“Does Mycroft usually send you a good morning text?”

“He wants to see us. Get dressed.”

“Well that's hardly a compelling invitation.”

“I'm not exactly thrilled about it either, but he made it sound important.”

“He makes everything sound important. It's in his job description. He revels in it.”

“I'm not gonna war with you over your trousers, but you should at least put good shoes on.”

Sherlock pulled his cerulean robe over the material of his sleepwear. “Why is he texting you, anyway? He's _my_ brother.”

“Hell if I know. Probably knows that I'll carry you out that door myself if I have to.”

“Seems like a lot of effort.”

'If we don't go to him, he'll trace us down elsewhere, or he'll drag himself all the way out here.”

“That would be more efficient for us.”

“I hate when he does that.”

“It's effective.”

“It's creepy.”

Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow. “You've never gone out of your way to cater to him before. What's changed now?”

The lines in John's face tightened; his hairline twitched on his scalp when he was anxious. “I have a few ideas about what he needs to say,” John answered stiffly.

“Oh, it's so cute when other people get ideas. They get so excited.” Sherlock's face turned as the phone on his knee quivered again. He lifted the device, eyes glancing to the fresh message on the screen. A few seconds passed before a broad grin twisted across his face. “Well, if he's going to be so generous, I suppose I can make an exception?”

“Generous?” John asked cautiously, watching as Sherlock pushed up from the armchair and stepped lithely towards his room. Sherlock pressed the phone into John's chest, who barely managed to keep the device from falling as he turned to watch his roommate practically skip down the hallway.

“He knows I can't resist a free interrogation, the sneaky old devil,” Sherlock called back. “Already has the suspect sitting comfortably for me and everything.”

“How sweet,” John mumbled, rolling his eyes as he tucked the phone back into his pants pocket. He met Mrs. Hudson’s worried stare with a sympathetic expression. “Keep an eye on the door, will you?”

“Only if you keep an eye on him,” she retorted sharply, barely masking the concern in her voice. Her form was still taunt with frustration, her youthful eyes flickering with that familiar motherly worry that could fracture even Sherlock's stubborn exterior. The woman was fierce, but she was anything if not tender-hearted. John gave an encouraging half-smile.

“Don't I always?”

* * * *

The serum wore off slowly; Alexis would flicker back into consciousness for a few brief moments before her eyelids would collapse shut again, until the cold sweat on her cheek chilled her back awake. Her body still felt numb while she twisted, only stabbing the nerves with sensation when she'd pull against the pinned hand against the floor. The ends of her hair were matted with frozen blood that had pooled underneath her palm; it seemed to have stopped for now, but the wound threatened to crack back open with the slightest twitch in the wrong direction. She had to lock her elbow against the hard surface of the floor in line with her hand; the rest of her body curled and stretched groggily as she attempted to gather some of her strength. Eventually she could lift her head, her eyelids finally obeying her need to keep them open and alert. Well, alert was a strong word...her head still spun wearily as blood sluggishly pushed through her veins. Still, she was awake, and that was a good first step.

Frozen specks of saliva dotted her chapped lips as she took in a slow inhale. Focus, she had to focus. The panic welling in her chest wouldn't do her any good. Bracing herself on her elbows, Alexis lifted her head towards the ceiling, wincing at the faint light that assaulted her eyes. The room seemed immense now, like the belly of some industrial whale that swallowed the remnants of a time long since past. The thick layers of gray dust showed at no one had bothered to enter this place in years—her only companions were the broken wood pieces and decrepit machinery that slumped in their own corners, left to die as well. Alexis opened her mouth and took a deep breath that rattled in the depths of her diaphragm. “Help...”

The pathetic word tumbled from her lips clumsily, barely audible enough to reach her own ears. Still, her speech carried across the floor with small vibrations, reaching the hollow walls with ease. She steadied herself and took another breath, deeper this time. “Help me!” Her back arced with the effort as she released the shout, tossing it towards the windows with every ounce of strength in her lungs. “ _SOMEBODY HELP ME!”_

The words echoed off the walls violently, crashing back into her ears with surprising force. They reverberated in the cracks and crevices of the room, slowly fading as they soaked into the shadows. Outside, nothing stirred; not even a single bird squeaked on the other side of the glass. Wherever she was, she was alone. Her throat was already weak and raw with the effort, but she clenched her teeth defiantly. Fine—she would have to get herself out of here.

Her eyes fell on her wounded hand. That meant getting herself free of her metal entrapment first. She ground her molars in her cheek at the thought of it; she struggled to formulate a coherent idea from the sludge of her brain at the moment. Ripping up the floorboards was out of the question—scratching her nails across the surface proved fruitless. There was no purchase for her to separate the piece of flooring from the rest of the structure, especially with her stiff, cold fingers at the moment. Perhaps she could yank the screw out, or even twist it out the way it had gone in. Neither method sounded particularly pleasant, but it was a start. She rested stiffly on her side and extended her other hand to reach the small metal head lodged in her palm. The moment her fingertips grazed the surface of the pin, excruciating pain racked up her arm again; she gave a sharp cry and struggled to keep herself conscious, rolling onto her stomach. Blackness bit at the edges of her sight as she retracted her fingers angrily.

Maybe she could rip herself off, like a band-aid. Well, perhaps more like a fox chewing off its foot in a trap. She gripped her wrist with her free hand, unsure if her knuckles were pale from the tightness of the grasp or the chill beneath her skin. She gathered her knees beneath her, summoned all the strength left in her bones, and wrenched upwards. Blistering pain blazed up the ligaments of her arm as she collapsed back to the floor. Her palm throbbed as stinging blood welled up from the wound, the metal still firmly set in her flesh. She was still far too weak to tear herself free. That seemed unfair; anger burned in the pit of her throat. Shouldn't adrenaline be on her side? Animals tore themselves apart for the chance of survival, and she couldn't get herself off the floor?

She slammed her free hand onto the ground in frustration; her soft limb barely left enough force to leave a bruise. How long had she been here? Even the faintest light through the windows was blinding—it could've been hours, or days. Maybe hypothermia was setting in, or blood loss was sapping her last scraps of strength. Her head felt impossibly heavy, and her tongue felt swollen in her flaking mouth. This wasn't right—she was supposed to be better than this. The urge to live should've burned in her veins. Instead, she just felt so cold—so cold, and so tired. At the time where her body should've been writhing for life, she just didn't want to move anymore. She slumped back onto her stomach with a whimper. God, she was so helpless. How could she be so incredibly useless—two minutes on her own, and she had ended up pierced and slowly dying on the floor. Not a great end to her track record.

It didn't matter if she cried now—who was going to see it?--but it still felt like a betrayal. Her own body had spurned her, she had shoved away the people who were meant to help her. She had survived the virus, the takeover, being stranded in Atlantic; how could this the one thing that made the kill? Her teeth ground as she took in a shaky, strained inhale.

_If I was going to die, why couldn't I have done it out there?_

No, no, that kind of thinking wasn't going to help. She knew what happened when she opened that particular trail of thought, and it was never pretty. She slowly lowered her forehead to the floor, squeezing her eyes shut tightly in order to brace against memories that violently rattled in her head. This didn't help, this didn't work, this didn't get her anywhere...yet it was all she could think about. The sight of bloodless eyes, the sounds of dissonant moans and wails, the burns of needles boring into her flesh, the taste of saltwater filling her mouth...no, no, no. Fear and anger blistered in her throat, bitterly clouding the air that she urgently sucked into her esophagus. There was nothing to distract her out here; the cruel silence mocked her as the images she tried to block fractured into shrapnel and dug viciously into what was left of her consciousness. The hot tears in her eyes stung harshly against her algid skin, unchecked. She wasn't even angry about what had happened, any of it. The ire that boiled in the pit of her stomach wasn't stoked by the thought of Moriarty, or Mycroft, or any of them. The fact that she was alone and a pawn wasn't any use to her anymore. She was angry, because the people who sank to the bottom of the Atlantic shouldn't have been there. The current situation only proved when she had already known: she was angry, because she shouldn't have been the one who survived.

Alexis opened her eyes slowly, the frost on her lashes scraping against her face. She thought she had felt cold after her leap into the Atlantic—she was wrong. This cold was different; whereas the ocean water had fiercely pierced every pore, this chill sat heavily on top of her, weighing every limb to the floor. Her flesh ached excruciatingly under white, shriveled skin. Even her lungs felt labored; was it possible for them to freeze? Her cracked lips shivered pathetically against her teeth as she desperately took in jagged breaths. The pain in her lanced hand had started to fade, but she wasn't sure if that was from the wound healing or her nerves dying.

She curled the stiff stiff fingers of her free hand into a clumsy fist. She had given a lot of thought to how she would die. There were certainly a lot of options these days—torn apart from a virus, lungs filling with ocean water, a saccharine swallow of poison, a shot to the back of the head, getting struck by a bus, perhaps even being splattered under a bridge. By someone else's hand, or maybe even her own. It was bound to happen, and perhaps it should have happened earlier, but Alexis felt stubborn frustration flood her chest. She raised her head slowly with gritted teeth.

It would not be on this damned floor.

****

Again, with the glaring. Evidently, this would be the theme for the day. Not that Sherlock was unaccustomed to his brother's unimpressed stare, but usually Mycroft would open his mouth to accompany the glower. Currently, the elder Holmes was unusually quiet, his thin lips pressed into a tight line. The expression itself was reminiscent of childhood; it brought back warm memories of the fuss made when the elder Holmes had found chemical burns in the flooring beneath his bed. As if a young boy had anywhere else to store the unfinished remains of his experiments, when his mother searched every other corner in the house.

The silence in his office was incredible; the thick carpeting and dark wallpaper swallowed any small twitch of sound. It matched Mycroft's demeanor quite nicely; his pale, avian face stood out above his dark suit. It was amazing how something so refined could be so boringly intense. His eyes relentless on Sherlock, who was stretched comfortably in one of the chairs across from Mycroft's desk. John sat stiffly in the chair next to Sherlock as he watched the quiet exchange between the two Holmes brothers with a tinge of incredulity. It was amazing how the spearhead of the British government and the world's consulting detective reverted to teenagers in the presence of one another. With a brusque grunt, John cleared his throat and leaned forward in his chair.

“None of us here have had our caffeine this morning, Mycroft, so maybe you could stop flirting and start talking.”

Mycroft turned his sour look to John, who remained unfazed under Mycroft's pernicious expression. John never flinched when it came to Mycroft, a fact that both amused and frustrated the elder Holmes on many occasions. With a sigh, Mycroft tapped the arm of his chair as he settled back into the cushion. “Odd, I was expecting one more in your little party. Couldn't rouse your other little helper this morning, Sherlock?”

Sherlock glared back. “And if I couldn't? Hardly see why she needs to be here.”

The hard tone of voice didn't go unnoticed by Mycroft, who raised a bemused eyebrow in response. “Well, seeing how you usually drag your little puppy around everywhere with you, it's just a little surprising, is all.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, crossing his long legs as he attempted to curl into the chair in a vain attempt to get comfortable. “First you complain that I let her out too much, and then you complain when I leave her behind. Make up your mind, will you?”

Mycroft turned back questioningly to John. “I'll take it something happened?”

John folded his arms tiredly, also sitting back into his chair. It was already shaping up to be a long morning, and the day had barely started. “They've been fighting.”

“I thought they always had their little quarrels; that was always part of my brother's charm.”

“Well, it wasn't quite as charming this time.”

“And that's why he's so dour this morning? Because his latest toy doesn't wanna play with him anymore?”

John shrugged. “Man misses his puppy.”

Sherlock groaned in frustration, uncrossing his legs. “Oh for God's sakes, for the _last_ time, she is not a _puppy._ She is a grown person who can make her own choices, and she happened to _choose_ not to join us this morning. I fail to see why this is so difficult for everyone to comprehend.”

Mycroft paused briefly before turning incredulously back to John. “Pouting, he's actually _pouting_ this morning. I haven't seen him sulk like this since I made him stay home with the flu.”

John resisted the urge to snort. “I can imagine he wasn't too happy with that, young boys rarely are...”

Sherlock's frown deepened. “I was twenty-three years old, and I was perfectly capable of examining that crime scene.”

Mycroft regarded him skeptically. “You were projectile-vomiting and weak on your feet. You barely made it home before you passed out. Even the great Sherlock Holmes is vulnerable to food poisoning every once and a while.”

“I was _fine_.” Sherlock crossed his arms. “At the very least, I managed to put that horrible restaurant out of business.”

“You found the owner guilty on seven counts of murder.”

“A happy coincidence.” 

“Mm, yes, coincidence.” Mycroft's eyes suddenly narrowed, the lines of his face tightening in a serious expression. “I've had a lot of  _coincidences_ in the past few hours. For example,” he drawled, opening a drawer in his desk and retrieving a small object, “someone turned  _this_ in three hours ago.”

Placing the item firmly on the desk, Mycroft removed his hand to reveal a scuffed black cellphone. The edges were worn, but the men immediately recognized it as the phone that belonged to Alexis. The screen was scratched and lifeless. “Recognize this?” Mycroft asked without a hint of actual inquiry. 

Sherlock glanced to the device briefly. “Battery's dead.”

“It's not on her person, Sherlock,” Mycroft barked back. “Why, pray tell, is it not on her person?”

“I can think of several reasons. Maybe because she's not tied to her electronics like a lifeline? Or perhaps it fell from her pocket when she was walking home? Maybe she tossed it in a fit of exasperation, I don't know. She's young, she's forgetful.”

“And why was she walking home, may I ask?”

“Because she grew weary of sharing the same cab air as me, I'm assuming.”

“And you let her go?”

“Well, I was hardly going to drag her by the hair back into the car, Mycroft.”

“And how long has she been gone, since your little childish spat?”

“I haven't exactly timed her on it.”

“How long?”

John shifted in his chair, the noise cracking through the uncomfortable moment of silence that followed. Sherlock refused to answer, although the dark expression was all the answer his elder brother needed. Mycroft's frown pursed tightly. “She hasn't returned, I take it.”

Sherlock's jaw twitched slightly. “You seem concerned.”

“As do you. At this point, I wouldn't blame you.”

The doctor's eyes fell to the phone on the desk in a desperate search for a distraction. His brow furrowed gently. “Who turned in her phone?”

Mycroft turned to John impatiently. “Hm?”

“You said someone turned in the phone. Who's the good samaritan?”

Mycroft paused before his face broke into a cold, tiredly satisfied grin. He looked a lot like his younger brother when he did that—they both twitched their head to the side when they flashed that pompous, almost sympathetic smile. They usually only did that when John finally asked a question that let them reveal just how clever they were. “Our friend came in early this morning after his work shift with this phone in hand—claimed he found it and wanted to do the right thing. I was alerted immediately, of course, and once the officers started to ask specific questions, he became frightened and tried to run.”

Sherlock's eyes sharpened. “Fear of authority, perhaps?”

“Possibly, although still intriguing as all the questions being asked were perfectly within protocol. No past criminal history to speak of, and he's an open book about everything except for that phone.” Mycroft's eyebrow arched. “Thoughts on that?”

“A man with no emotional attachment to the phone wouldn't make a fuss; a smart man would pawn it, a thrifty man would break into it, a naïve man would expect to show up to the station and still turn it in anonymously.” 

“And a man who tries to flee the station? What is he?”

“Clearly he's a stupid man.”

“But is he a guilty man?”

“Maybe—seems to fit the profile. Guilty of something, the question is what.”

Mycroft sighed, tapping his desk with an impatient finger. “That concerns me, Sherlock.”

“Well I can hardly tell you about his crime yet, Mycroft, I've only known about him for twelve seconds.”

“I've seen you deduce a person's entire life-story in six seconds, four on a good day. You're slow, but you've never been one to make excuses. At any rate, that wasn't what I was referring to.” Mycroft retracted his hand and straightened his back. “I don't like the fact that a guilty man was in possession of your charge's phone. I don't like the  _implications_ of the fact that a guilty man was in possession of your charge's phone. I also don't care for your stubborn indifference to all of this.”

“I'm stubbornly indifferent to a lot of things, generally the things that don't matter.”

Mycroft's glare glazed over icily, causing John's limbs to tighten instinctively under the hostile expression. The doctor resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the rising dramatics in the rooms. He gave a gritty cough in the depths of his lungs in order to break the tension, drawing the incredulous attention of both Holmes brothers. “What Sherlock is  _trying_ to say,” John commented with a side-glance to his flatmate, “is that this is probably a big fuss over nothing. She's probably back at the flat now, sleeping it off.”

“That would be peachy, now, wouldn't it?” Mycroft hummed, raising his palm in a quick gesture. His suit jacket slid slightly down his pale wrist. “Go on, then.”

John blinked. “Sorry...?”

“Call home, see if Cinderella is back from the ball. It's well past midnight, she should have stumbled in sans slipper by now, if you're so sure.”

“Oh, um...okay.” There was no point in questioning it; Mycroft had look in his eyes, the one that flashed in a dog's face before the bite. John didn't feel like being locked in the jowls of the British government today; it was never comfortable. He retrieved the bulky form of his phone from his pocket, flipping it into his palm. “I'll call Mrs. Hudson, she might still be home.”

“If she can work that blasted phone of hers,” Sherlock grumbled, glancing away again. “God knows I've tried to teach her a thousand times by now.”

“I'm sure she can figure out the green answer button,” John commented lightly as he dialed quickly. Pressing the phone to his ear, he waited a brief moment before turning back to Mycroft with a raised brow. “It's ringing.”

Mycroft gave a joyless smile in return. “I'm aquiver with anticipation.”

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes before turning his attention back to the phone. The speaker filled with a beat of crackling static before ambient noise hissed hollowly in the background. Mrs.Hudson's uncertain voice sounded thin on the other end of the line. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Hudson, hi.” He paused for a moment. “It's John.”

“Oh, I know, dear. Your name came up on the screen. Sherlock showed me how to use that after Gerald...well, you know.” She chuckled lightly.

John tilted away from the phone slightly. “Congrats, she knows about caller ID.”

“It's about time. Now tell her to stop screening my calls.”

The joviality in Sherlock's voice was bitter and tight, but it made John smirk a bit. “Sherlock says he's feeling a little ignored.”

“Is that why he made you call, dear?”

“Actually, no.” John cleared his throat, suddenly aware of Mycroft's eyes boring into his forehead. “We were actually wondering if you're still at home?”

“Well, yes, John. I tend to take my mornings a little slower than you two, I'm afraid.”

“That's fine.” John's mouth stretched in content. “Actually, that's great.”

“Why? Did you boys forget something?”

“No, we were just wondering how Alexis was doing.”

The silence on the other end of the line felt tense. “Has she still not talked to you boys yet?” she replied gently.

John sighed with a small shrug. “Well, no, but we weren't really weren't expecting her to. I guess we're just curious if she's stumbled through the door yet.”

The next quiet hesitation felt heavy. “Dear, no one's been home since you left.”

John's brow furrowed. “Are you sure...?”

“I'm afraid so. Maybe she'll still out blowing off steam...?”

“I'm sure she is.” John's mouth tightened suddenly. “I guess let us know if she walks in?”

“Of course, dear. I'll keep an eye out.”

“Thanks, Mrs.Hudson.” John pulled the phone back stiffly from his face. Reluctantly, he raised his eyes to see Mycroft barely containing his smug validation. The elder Holmes was giving a miniscule grin, but it was filled with less condescension than usual. His eyes flickered coldly with a discontent that was starting to waft from his pores.

“Let me guess.”

John sat back into his chair, his face defiantly calm. “She's not back yet.”

“Of course she's not.” Mycroft sat forward in his own chair, fingers latching together in a sinisterly polite gesture. “Well, that leaves us in a predicament, now, doesn't it?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You seem worried.”

“Not worried, Sherlock, agitated. Your stubborn demeanor is nothing short of irritating in this situation.”

“It's a _situation_ now.”

“Judging on the changed tone of your voice, I would say you agree, you just don't like to say it out loud.”

Sherlock's frown deepened. “Is that why you called us in, Mycroft? To make this into a show?”

“Your charge as been missing for eighteen hours, and you didn't think it prudent to mention to your friends at Scotland Yard?” Mycroft shook his head. “I trusted you with this, and you tossed it aside the moment it became inconvenient.”

“You're upset that I lost your trading piece?”

Mycroft's eyes sharpened and flared, his voice harsh than his normally smooth and tranquil melody. “I am _upset_ that you took your eyes off of her when she has an entire criminal empire breathing down her neck!” He closed his eyes quickly to regain his composure. “Honestly, Sherlock, even given your limitations, I expected you to be smarter than this.”

“Has anyone filed a missing persons report for her?” John interjected shortly.

“I took the liberty of that before you two walked in this morning. Normally 24 hours would be more protocol, but given the nature of this problem, I convinced the Yard to make an exception.”

Sherlock watched his brother carefully. “I take it you're not too confident in their abilities.”

“The optimist in me hopes that they'll be enough to solve this little issue. However, given that I'm a realist, I called you to do the real footwork. In the best case scenario, you'll find her sulking in a pub somewhere, and you drag her back kicking and screaming if necessary. In the worst case scenario...well, I would hope I don't have to elaborate on that one.” His hands gripped the edge of his desk. “Find her, Sherlock.”

“Where do you propose I start?”

Mycroft gave a hollow grin and settled back into his chair, gesturing lightly towards the door. “Downstairs, room 24. Careful—he's a biter.”

 


	12. Blood

This type of scene had always reminded Sherlock why he would never, ever own a hamster. Or a rat. Or a ferret. Actually, pretty much any small rodent was off the table. He had several good reasons—how useful could a pet be if it fit in the palm of his hand?--but above all, he couldn't stand the pathetic scampering around the perimeters of their cages. That doomed, helpless march was just...depressing. Yet it was amazing how the confused gait of trapped victims was so precisely emulated by his guilty clients so often. The movements were eerily similar; beady eyes that scanned their wallpapered cages, twitching faces that bore perpetually uneasy expressions, thirsty throats that practically gaped for relief. It tempted Sherlock to bring a water bottle to these interrogations, just to see what they'd do. Who needed a small, squeaky rodent when these giant, hairless creatures were much more entertaining?

And yet, as Sherlock stepped impatiently into the downstairs office, he couldn't feel any joy in lieu of this particular interrogation. As he stepped wryly through the doorway, a middle-aged man leapt to his feet in anticipation. Sherlock scanned him shortly—the man stood a little over 150 centimeters with multiple layers of hardy clothing to give the illusion of a bulkier stature. A pale scar hooked from the right corner of his mouth in the roots of his scraggly facial hair, clearly visible against the man's coarsely tanned skin which shone with a nervous sweat. The perspiration had created a sheen in his tightly shorn black hair; he rubbed at it with the stocky palm of his hand in an anxious gesture. Dark eyes flitted quickly under his strong brow. Sherlock frowned. He had found his little ferret.

The man's tongue curled to moisten the dry roof of his mouth. “Do I get to go now?” he barked. “They finally sort out who I am? I 'ave my rights, you know, you can't hole me up here forever.”

“Very soon, Mr. Fide,” Sherlock replied calmly, pausing at the door to allow John to follow him inside. The detective tucked his hands behind his back, surveying the room briefly. The space looked more like a storage unit than an office; judging by the boxes, someone was moving in soon, delayed by the inconvenience of a suspect temporarily taking residency in the room. It lacked the gray indifference of a normal interrogation room, but it certainly felt just as alienating. “I presume you've been made comfortable?”

“Don't give me that noise, I won't 'ave it. Your little routine won't trick me, with your goodie cop and bad cop thing.”

“Firstly, Mr. Fide, you've been watching too many movies.” Sherlock stepped deftly now, eyes trained ahead. “Secondly, I don't possess the patience to be a police officer.” He gave a tight, emotionless grin. “Thirdly, we're just here to ask a few questions.”

“That's all they've been doing since I got 'ere. I drive a cab, for God's sake, not running for office!”

“Any answers you provide could be most helpful.”

“Yeah, helpin' you help yourself.” Fide snorted. “Not even a real cop.”

“Consulting detective, actually.” Sherlock struggled to mask the bitter impatience in his voice. “They bring me in when people are...uncooperative.”

“Yeah, I know who you are. Mysteries and all that.” The driver sniffed. “Dunno why you're here, I didn't do anything.”

Sherlock paused, inhaling lightly before retrieving Alexis's phone from his pocket. The dead screen gleamed sharply in the pale light of the room's dim ceiling fixture. “You turned this in, yes?”

The man glanced to the phone briefly before turning away in a wince. His face remained in a stubborn scowl, but his eyes flickered nervously. “Yeah, it yours?”

Sherlock lowered the device. “It belongs to someone I'm trying to find. I was hoping you could help me in that regard.”

“Well, sorry, can't help ya.” The man's frown deepened. “I just turned the damn thing in, didn't think it'd be such a bloody big deal.”

“You didn't want it?”

“No, why would I? Got my own phone.”

“Could've sold it, or simply held onto it for later. It's a fairly expensive model.”

“Sounds like a hassle. Rather have someone else deal with it.”

“Then why not simply throw it out?”

The man's mouth tightened, the lines darkening in his face. “Should've, if I'd known how much of a pain in my ass it'd be.”

“And yet, you didn't. That intrigues me.” Sherlock flipped the phone in his hand, the plastic cool against his skin. “You don't seem like a malicious man, Mr. Fide. You keep your head down pretty well.”

“I mind my own business.”

“I can see that. Hardly the profile of a criminal.”

“I'm not. I'm just earnin' a living, like everyone else here. And right now, every minute I'm stuck here is another minute outta my paycheck.”

“Your living as a cab drivier?”

“Yeah, that's the one.”

Sherlock dragged his thumb across the black screen of the device, the oil of his fingerprint smearing colorfully in the light. “Is that when you found this phone?”

“Uh-huh. People lose things in cabs all the time.”

“So the owner of this phone was in your cab recently?”

Fide furrowed his brow sharply. “Well, yeah, suppose so, maybe...”

“Do you remember where she went?”

“You think I remember everyone who sits in my cab?”

“Perhaps we can spark your memory.”

“I don't even know what the brat looks like.”

“Luckily, I do. She's 163 centimeters tall, about 50 kilograms, blonde hair, green eyes, 22-years-old, thin and likely visibly distressed. Spark anything?”

“You just described about a third of my clientele, sorry. Angry blondies aren't as rare as you think.”

“Then perhaps we could consult the dashboard footage from yesterday to make sure.”

The corner of Fide's mouth twitched. “Can't. S'broken.”

“Not a problem, I'm sure we could assist you with that. I'm very good with my hands.”

“Don't you touch my cab,” Fide snarled, shoulders stiffening in response.

“You seem reluctant to help us, Mr. Fide.”

“Oh, piss off already!” Fide's voice rose nto a fierce growl. “All of this for a stupid shitty phone! Maybe it was stolen before it fell in my cab, maybe her friends was giving it back, maybe she's just clumsy! I don't give a damn about that stupid phone or your stupid lost bitch or your damn investigation! This whole thing is robbing meals off of _my_ table!”

A quiet moment passed as Sherlock quietly watched the man in front of him shake with anger and rattled nerves. The detective raised a sharp eyebrow before giving a gentle shrug with his heavy shoulders. “If you're worried about meals, I wouldn't fret too much. I've heard the penitentiary will give you three of them a day, for free.”

Fide's eyes widened as Sherlock turned on his heel as if to leave the room. “P...prison?” His voice cracked urgently. “On what grounds?!”

Sherlock paused and turned back lightly, his face slack in innocuous surprise. “Well, it's hard to say at this point, but it could shape up to be murder here soon.”

“ _Murder?_ ”

“Well, yes, depending on what state we find her in. It's almost been 24 hours, after all. As of now, the evidence indicates that you were the last one to see her before she went missing, and your refusal to cooperate certainly paints you in an unflattering light.”

“That's...that's nothing! They'd never lock me away for it!”

“Are you so sure? People are so fickle.” Sherlock locked eyes with Fide harshly. “Also, I'd work on your facial expressions before your day in court. Jurors tend to notice if a defendant looks so apologetic at the mention of murder.”

The silence after Sherlock's statement was palpable; Fide's pulse practically echoed off the walls. He took a few shaky steps backwards until he slumped into the chair behind him, legs angled awkwardly beneath his hips. “No, this isn't right....” His voice was a tight whisper, frantic and slurred in desperation. “You can't do this, you can't  _do_ this...”

“I'm not doing anything, Mr. Fide, except losing my patience.” Sherlock's eyes sharpened. “You may not care about our 'lost bitch's' life, but you certainly seem to care for your own, so I'd put some use to that mouth while you still can as a free man.”

“You don't get it, do you?” Fide's eyes darted across the room, looking for something else to focus on for the moment. “You just don't get it, you don't...”

“Then explain.” Sherlock's voice was hard now, and the demand fell perniciously off of his tongue. 

“I can't, you stupid son of a bitch!” Fide glared in return, although the malice faltered under the fear that had gripped his expression. “I've got family to think of, you know!”

“A family who'll watch their patriarch march to a prison cell, if this continues. Is that what you'd calling 'protecting them'?”

“You just...don't...get...it.” Fide's teeth had clenched together with tremendous force as he buried his forehead into the palms of his hands. He pulled the skin taunt against his forehead. “I didn't want her to...but I can't, I can't chance it, I can't...”

“Didn't want her to what?” Sherlock unhooked his arms from behind his back. “What did you do to her?”

“Nothin', I didn't do nothin' to her!” Fide raised his eyes frantically. “I didn't touch her, I swear to God, I just drove the cab. I just drove the car!”

“To where?” Sherlock's voice remained smooth, but its undertones grew fiercer with every syllable in frustration of this stubbornness. “Where did she get out?”

Fide's only reply was a whimper as he lowered his face again. The sight of this man terrorized into such a state would have been saddening, had Sherlock any time (or motivation) to empathize with him. Behind the detective's shoulder, John was watching carefully with a tightly pressed mouth—he had just as many questions, but was hesitant to interrupt Sherlock's line of questioning, lest he disrupt the man's process. “I can't, I  _can't_ ...” Fide croaked into his hands. 

“Was she alone?” 

“I can't...”

“Did she know where she was?”

“I  _can't..._ ”

“Where was she going?”

“I can't, I  _can't_ ...”

“Did you see what happened to her?”

“No, I didn't see anything!” Fide cried out earnestly. His eyes were watery now. “I swear to God, I didn't see what happened, he made me wait outside!”

Sherlock paused. “He...?” The word rolled off his tongue dangerously. 

Fide swallowed a tremulous hiccup. “He made...he made me promise, he said he'd kill my family...I didn't see anything, I didn't want to...”

“Who is he?”

“I dunno, man, I didn't ask his name! I'm...I'm not even supposed to be telling you this, he made me swear....”

“You know where she is?”

“I know where I was supposed to drive, that's is, that's all I know, I just...I just did my job...”

“Where did you go?”

“I'm not a murderer, I just didn't wanna die...”

“So you let another person take your place, I know the story. You're looking like a fairly guilty accomplice, Mr. Fide.”

“He threatened my family! What was I supposed to do?”

“Tell us where she is, Mr. Fide! Where did he tell you to drive?”

Fide hesitated. “If he finds out...”

“I'm not concerned with your friend, I'm concerned with the location of the person he took with him. The address, Mr. Fide!”

Fide's tongue rolled thoughtlessly behind his teeth. His eyes lowered softly. “We...we drove to the Lawrence factory downtown. That's all I remember.”

John inhaled lightly, his spine straightening with sudden purpose. “I know where that is.”

Sherlock glanced to him quickly. “Can you direct us there?” he asked pointedly, attention completely broken from the babbling suspect in front of him. 

John's nod was answer enough, and the detective spun hurriedly on his heel towards the door. The man's lithe body was taunt with the hunt in his veins now. John leapt into a stiff jog to keep up, the hairs prickling across his skin. They had a lead, but from John's memory of the place, it wasn't necessarily a reason to celebrate. Behind the men, Fide stood to his feet abruptly, the chair falling back from behind his legs with a clatter as they shut the door behind them.

“Tell her I'm sorry!” The man's voice was muffled behind the walls, but still clearly raw with guilt. It faded as the men walked away, but the tone still soaked through the walls with its urgent pleading. Fide's rough voice felt desperate, although it was difficult to tell if it was out of guilt for the girl or fear for himself. “I didn't want it....I didn't mean it...tell her!”

* * * *

So...cold.

Chattering teeth were so... _loud_ . Alexis could barely hear herself think over the clamor of her enamel bashing together so percussively. It didn't help that her parched tongue already felt swollen—she could feel it rasp against the roof of her mouth when she swallowed, although the motion felt more habitual than necessary, as her throat didn't feel the respite of saliva anymore. Her nose had seemed to usurp all the moisture; the mucus had crushed beneath her nostrils, after leaking incessantly from her sinuses. She attempted to rub it against the sleeve of her coat, although she wasn't sure how effective that had been—her face had gone numb a long time ago. 

It hurt. Any exposed skin seared from the cold, yet to shake its ache. She couldn't feel them touch anything, but the nerves still burned with pain inside her flesh. Her fingers were clenched into a fist beneath her stomach in a vain attempt to keep them warm; she had shifted to lay across the hand pierced into the floor, hoping to protect it with any shred of body heat left in her. At first it had pained her, as any shift in body weight pressed against the tender wound; as time passed, however, her shivers became more violent, and the sensations in her injured hand faded into numbness. That would worry her, if she hadn't been so thankful for relief. Now, instead of the sharp pain in her palm, her entire body was racked with agonizing chill; her stomach quivered, her legs shook fiercely, and her teeth simply wouldn't let her jaw anchor shut. Her head felt constricted with an overbearing headache from dehydration. 

The hair that had been made slick by perspiration was now frozen in locks around her face. She focused on taking deep, biting breaths that rattled heavily in her lungs. Slowly, she dragged her free hand to grasp the wrist of her pinned arm—her skin winced gently under her touch, but the sensation barely registered. She wrapped her frozen fingers around the limb, forcing her knees under her stomach to give herself more room. Her body was frightfully weakened, and the effort the movement took worried her greatly. Thankfully, worry didn't flourish long in her parched, tired brain; it leaked through the cracks in her thought. All that drove her now was getting off the floor, and that would take everything left in her bones to do so. 

She tested the flesh around the wound first—whereas before it had rattled her with agonizing pain, now the skin just flinched instinctively to her fingers' probing. The fingers of her hand were gnarled and curled in place, useless. She dragged the fingers of her free hand against the head of the screw lodged in her palm; she could barely feel the metal curve press into her fingertip. Before it had torn into the nerves of her limb to even brush against the screw; now, she could touch it with relative ease. Her fingers were too stiff to curl around the edge. Twisting the screw free wouldn't be an option—it simply required too fine of motor skills at this point. If she had the strength, she could rip the screw the rest of the way through her hand, but then how long would it be until she bled to death? The inflamed flesh around the injury had swollen around the metal in a swathe of twisted skin and congealed blood; removing the screw entirely would dangerously reopen the wound. 

There was some respite to be found—as her body swayed from exhaustion, Alexis noticed the screw shifting slightly with her. The movements were small and stiff, but she could feel the metal slide against the dying flesh in her hand. The old flooring had a weak hold on the bite of the screw, splintering around the metal's curvature. It didn't have much give, but if she could get a manageable grip on the screw and her hand, she might be able to fracture the flooring a bit more and pull herself free. She braced herself on her knees in an attempt to steady herself. Hooking her fingers beneath her pinned hand, Alexis blinked forcefully to focus through her fogging brain. This was no time to succumb to weariness. She braced her free palm against the head of the screw and pressed lightly in anticipation. With a deep algid inhale through her nose, Alexis tightened her muscles and slammed her bodyweight against her lanced hand at an angle. 

Sharp pain immediately pierced through the girl's arm, although not as fiercely as before. She was almost thankful for the sensation; at least that limb was still clinging onto life. Something cracked—whether it was the wood or the bones in her hand, she didn't know. She yanked herself back, pulling onto her pinned hand with a guttural whimper. The screw seemed to move more, although that may have been desperate optimism. The wound pulsed with fresh blood, the injury must have torn again. Alexis gritted her teeth and squeezed her hand again. Gathering the remaining scraps of her strength, she threw her bodyweight in the opposite angle with a wail of frustration. A flare of pain pierced her arm again as her forehead lowered in the floor, prickling under a new sheen of sweat. She was tired, she was scared, she was hurt, but above all now, she was angry. She was angry at this pain, at this place, at these people; it was stupid, but it churned acidically in the pit of her stomach. With a roar she pulled herself back again, ignoring her wounds' protests as the flooring crackled beneath her. The screw no longer felt so ominous, this little metal fang was malleable, breakable, conquerable. With one more mighty shove, Alexis barreled forward with a vice-like hold on her imprisoned hand; the wood groaned lowly as she violently jolted ahead. The tooth of the screw arced loose as it gouged through the floor with a shriek, and Alexis collapsed onto her side. 

She could feel her limb shake beneath her stomach. Her palm was quivering from its newly torn flesh, but the pain quickly subsided in her thoughts when she felt the prick of the screw lightly scraping the frigid fabric of her shirt. She felt the sharp point press into her stomach with her short inhales, and she barely had the strength to leak a shaky, victorious laugh from her lungs. The noise was barely more than a gurgle in her throat. She was tired, she was scared, she was hurt, but above all now, she was free. At the moment, that was all she could hope for. 

It had come at a price, however. The adrenaline that had engulfed her was now dissipating, and the remainder of her strength was slowly draining into the frozen floor. She managed to collect her limbs beneath her, staggering back onto her knees while gingerly holding her wounded hand at a gentle angle. Her gaze fell to the floor, and the congealed crimson mess startled her. She hadn't realize how much blood she had lost; the pool had stained the floor surrounding her in a thick sticky layer, and she could hear the blood dried onto her clothes and face crack as she moved. Blood-stained locks of hair framed her face, and she could feel flakes of blood falling from her lips. The smell was heavy in her nostrils. A wave of nausea overcame her suddenly, and her whole body heaved as she retched. There wasn't much in her stomach to expunge, but it still burned in her esophagus as she spit it off her tongue. The acrid taste seared in her mouth as she forced herself to sit up, struggling to lift her chin. She couldn't collapse here; if she fell back into this sick, she wasn't sure that she'd have the strength to rise again.

She threw herself backwards to scoop her feet beneath her hips. Her legs quaked from the exertion, harshly bowed as they struggled to support the weight of her body. She gracelessly staggered upright, her body steeped at a dangerous angle. Harsh colors painfully eclipsed her vision as dizziness pounded in her temples. Cradling her injured hand to her waist, Alexis raised her eyes just enough to locate the entryway in the dimly lit warehouse. Even if she had to claw herself there by dragging on her stomach, her only aim was to reach that door. She thrust one leg in front of her, her foot dragging in the dust. The limb quivered, but it held. 

Her eyelids felt leaden now. Algid beads of sweat still burned against her face, but she didn't dare lift her arm to wipe them away from her eyes. Her grip on her wounded wrist had tightened to the point of pain; she clutched it like a lifeline. She could hear her footsteps against the floor as they echoed chaotically; she knew she was moving, but she wasn't so sure that she was walking as much as falling forward. The muscles in her back spasmed beneath frozen skin, and every tendon seemed to be aching in protest of being awakened from their temporary slumber. Her steps quickened in a fumbling, desperate haste. 

Had she been paying attention, she would've noticed the stairs. The pale shadows had masked the small staircase from a distance, and in her stumbling she had forgotten their existence. Her toes caught the firm edge, pressing against the top of her foot and sending her weakening body tumbling. She pitched forward and smacked her forehead forcefully against a protruding stair edge. Her skull seared with fresh pain, blood rushing to the new wound with overwhelming pressure. The fall had pinned her arms beneath her chest, although her wounded hand had wrapped around her side. Her legs sprawled unceremoniously behind her. She was drained of strength now—her chilled body lay heavily on the staircase. She simply couldn't eke out the energy to lift her frame. Her howling head was anchored to the cold surface of the stair; it took all of her efforts to crane her neck towards the door. Through the tangled veil of her hair, she could glimpse the silhouette of the exit. It was only a few feet away; it might as well have been a mile. Her heartbeat thundered slowly in her ribs as blackness crept into the corners of her sight. Had she hit her head violently enough to lose consciousness, or was hypothermia starting to take hold? The sound of her own labored breathing swelled in her ears; she thought she heard of the soft rattle of someone brushing the door handle, but it faded quickly. The hallucinations must have started—too much blood on the floor, not enough in her brain. Before she slipped away completely, her vision was flooded with white light that scaled her retinas. The sound of squealing hinges rattled in her brain, and then everything went black. 

 

 


	13. Illusion

Taxi cab rides with Sherlock were often tense, but they were rarely quiet. John glanced over to his flatmate—after the doctor had quickly sputtered the address, the vehicle had spurred into motion and Sherlock had grown silent. Silence didn't mean isolation, however; the terse air of the cab was dense with unspoken conversation. Sherlock's eyes were bright with fiery circuitry but his jaw was clenched tightly. The machinery of his mind practically whirred with its wild calculations, and its final conclusions made the man's muscles ripple in his cheek. John wouldn't call it concern—he'd been chastised for that numerous times before—but Sherlock was certainly on edge. This demeanor was familiar to the doctor, although that was hardly comforting. The uneasiness in the air said what they couldn't. Sherlock turned to this when there was a chance that he lost his game.

“Was that too easy?”

  
John's voice broke Sherlock's concentration, his sharp gaze shifting icily. “What, the interrogation?”

“If you can call it that—he gave in pretty quickly. Do you think he lied to us?”

“He'd have to be a liar of Mycroft's caliber to fool me so easily. More likely, he's just your average citizen who gets jittery at the thought of being in trouble.”

“You think he's just scared?”

“Fear tends to make people fickle, but it's not a good a motivator as guilt.”

John inhaled stiffly. “You think he hurt her?”

“He's a new level of idiocy if that's the case—turned himself right in, didn't he?” Sherlock sat back in his seat. “He's not acting rationally at the moment, which slows things a bit.”

  
“But he knows something,” John sighed. “Doesn't want to get in trouble for it, but can't live with it on his conscience.”

“A design flaw of actually having one,” Sherlock quipped tonelessly.

“Good for us, though.”

“True.”

John's gaze lingered thoughtfully on Sherlock's face for a moment. “It's okay to be worried about her, you know.”

Sherlock's face twitched in John's direction. “Glossing over the implications of that, will that help her?”

“Well, the fact that you want to help her says something, at least.”

Sherlock glowered. “Don't romanticize me, John. I have an international reputation because I don't get sentimental about my work.”

“Oh, come off it. You are head over heels for your work, it's any kind of connection to another human being that gets you all skittish.”        John resisted the urge to roll his eyes—this conversation felt like clockwork by now. “Anyways, I'm not calling you anyone's guardian angel. I'm saying it's not the end of the world if you happen to care whether someone's alive or dead.”

Sherlock grew quiet, and the heavy silence prickled the hairs on the back of John's neck. The doctor's brow furrowed. “We...are going to find her alive, right?” The question felt strange in the doctor's mouth, almost juvenile in its naivety. When there was no reply, a dry determination rasped in his chest, the same familiar sensation of preparing for battle. The numbness in his brain sharpened his focus. “We shouldn't be going alone.”

“We're not.” Sherlock retrieved his phone and shook it gently. “Lestrade is following behind us.”

“Does he have paramedics with him?”

“I should hope so.”

John paused. “Mycroft let him?”

“Why wouldn't he?”

“Remember the last time she was hurt?”

Sherlock glanced out his window earnestly. “This situation is a bit different.”

“How, exactly?”

“This is a little more...immediate.”

The muscles in John's throat stiffened. “Meaning she's not worth much to him dead.”

“Oh, don't be so morbid.” Sherlock's eyes flickered back half-heartedly. “She's not buried yet.”

“So you think she's alive?”

“Could be. It's still been less than twenty-four hours, and she's a stubborn girl.”

“You don't sound too hopeful.”

“Do I ever?” Sherlock sat back in his seat again, his limbs taunt with impatience. His frown deepened in thought, eyes focused directly ahead. “I'm not quite sure what we're walking into here.”

Uncertainty didn't suit Sherlock well; the fact that those words came willingly out of the man's mouth sent a chill to John's stomach. “Fantastic,” the doctor sputtered bitterly, the venom directionless in his voice.

Sherlock raised his eyes to John's face, which was stiff in anticipation. “Did you bring your gun?”

John turned to him exasperatedly. “You really think I bring my illegal firearm whenever I commute downtown?”

“Left inside pocket?”

“Of course it's the left inside pocket!” John's shoulders slackened only slightly in irritation.

“Good. Keep it ready.” The cab began to slow, the grit of the road crunching beneath the tires. Sherlock perched his hand on the door handle. His eyes sharpened on the rustic building which filled up the window as they drew near. The exterior was crusted with age, its high windows glazed with dust and worn like cataracts. “Whatever is in there, we're about to find it first.”

The moment the vehicle came to a full stop, Sherlock leapt out the door with wry grace without a second glance back. John paused to hand money to the driver, stepping orderly from the cab with relatively blocky movements. Sherlock had wandered down the dirt road, tracing the building with calculating eyes. John tapped the top of the cab with a broad hand, and the vehicle growled back to life. He stepped aside to avoid the smog and dust that the cab wheels spewed as it groaned forward, rolling down the road to pass Sherlock who barely noticed the noise. Sherlock's gait had slowed, allowing John to jog shortly to catch up with his flatmate with a twinge of frustration. The tautness between Sherlock's shoulder-blades caught the doctor's attention, and the two men slowed to a cautious stop. John followed Sherlock's focus on the entryway. “The door's been opened,” Sherlock commented lowly.

John swallowed back a surge of adrenaline that sparked up his spinal cord. “Should we wait for the Yard to get here?”

Sherlock glanced back at him. “Do you want to?”

John's jaw tightened in silence, but in a slow motion he slid his hand into his jacket and pulled out his gun. His hands melded around the weapon smoothly as he held it by his waist, his body slipping effortlessly into its militaristic stance. Sherlock was no stranger to defending himself, but John was a creature trained in combat; the detective always felt a little safer in his company for situations like this. With a quick nod, John pressed ahead with measured steps, Sherlock following behind him with equal care. The winter air nipped mercilessly at the skin above his scarf, keeping him alert. As the men approached the building, the signs of its wear became more apparent; the frosted brick wall stood like a skeleton, the structure strong against the elements but hollow of life. John leapt up the short wooden staircase, creeping down the exterior and nearing the front entryway with wiry caution. His coat scraped against the wall as he walked, the gun warm against his palm and steady against his nerves. His legs tensed as they reached the edge of the doorframe, pausing to strain his ears for any sign of movement. Inside the warehouse was soundless; not even a rat scratched against the floor. He noted mindfully that the doorframe was cracked and splintered near where the handle would make contact—someone had kicked the door in. John angled back to Sherlock, holding up three fingers. With a beat he dropped one finger, and Sherlock bent his knees in anticipation. With another slow inhale, John lowered a second finger, and with a final short exhale, he clenched the final finger into a fist and rounded the corner.

Despite the explosive movements, John's form was exceptionally quiet; he burst through the open door with raised weapon in nearly completely silence. Thick shadows draped across the room, but the pale daylight that managed to eke through the milky windows was enough to attest to the emptiness of the room. John stepped to the side, his eyes scanning for signs of life in the far corners of the warehouse. Seeing no immediate danger, Sherlock slipped through the doorway, and his frame suddenly stiffened. “John...”

John swept around to see Sherlock rushing towards the stairs that led further into the warehouse. The gun fell to his hip and he saw the reason why; sprawled on the stairs was the form of Alexis, his face veiled by her iced-over mane of hair. Her limbs were bent at awkward angles beneath her body, pinned beneath her twisted torso. Sherlock had knelt by her hand, his hands raised in urgent hesitation—this wasn't his expertise. Luckily, it's didn't have to be. The doctor surged forward with purposeful steps, pushing past Sherlock to kneel by the girl's side on the staircase. He found the urge to hold his breath as he wrapped his hand gently around the side of her throat, pressing his thumb lithely into her jugular. A few moments of fragile silence passed before John exhaled slowly and shifted the weight on his heels. “Pulse is weak, but she's still breathing.” He started to shake the coat off of his shoulders. “Hypothermia is setting in—we need to get her body temperature up.”

He gingerly reached around the pulled the fabric of his coat around her shoulders. Her frozen clothing crackled under his touch—he could only imagine the state of the skin beneath them. A rustle of movement made him turn to see Sherlock shuffling out of his own coat. “Here, mine will cover more of her.”

John nodded shortly. “Help me lift her,” he ordered, grabbing the long wad of heavy wool from Sherlock's hand. Sherlock obliged, tucking his hands obediently beneath the girl's ear. Her frame hung limply as his thumb brushed against her forehead. John's eyes glanced quickly to her face. “Careful, her head's injured—she must have fallen.”

Sherlock arced his fingers to cup the curve of the girl's skull. He watched John encircle Alexis's waist, his eyes narrowing. “John, her hand...”

“What?” John's gaze lowered to the hand crumpled against her torso. “Oh, dammit...gawd...what in the hell did they do to her?” John pressed the area around the wound gently with his fingertips. “Can't take it out, she's lost a lot of blood...looks like it's stopped now, but we need to get her out of here before it gets infected.”

A deep growl rumbled in her stomach, her abdominals suddenly clenching. Her spine arced as a gurgle in her throat whispered past her heavy tongue, her frosted eyelashes as she weakly opened her eyes. A wheezy inhale shallowly filled her lungs, sending shivers throughout her terse muscles. Immediately John turned his attention to her head, carefully angling her face towards him with the heel of his palm. “Oh, thank God...Alexis, can you hear me?”

Alexis wasn't immediately responsive; her body seemed to shiver more, the muscles hindered in their attempts to move. Her throat emitted broken guttural gasps as she tried to force more air to her stubborn diaphragm. With a moan she curled at the waist and closed her eyes again. “No, no, no, Alexis, stay with me.” John's voice was low and urgent as he tucked the jackets more firmly around her before forcefully gripping her shoulder. “I know you're tired, but you have to stay awake. Come on now, stay with me, keep your eyes open.” He paused, cautiously turning Alexis's body until she was resting on her side. His eyes scanned for any further wounds; seeing none, he raised his eyes to her face again in earnest. “Focus, Alexis, you have to focus. Can you hear me at all? Do you understand what I'm saying to you?”

Alexis took a shaky breath through painfully cracked lips. With a tremendous effort, she managed to lift her eyelids fractionally, and with a parched swallow she gave a small nod that shifted her hair across the stair. Her eyes were cloudy and unfocused, aimless and hollow within the darkening sockets that were a stark contrast to her icy alabaster skin. The blood was drained from her cheeks, and it looked like a lot of it was accounted for on her clothes; she didn't have much time before she slipped back out of consciousness again. If paramedics didn't arrive soon, waking her back up would be the challenge. The roar of vehicles was faint in the algid air—they needed to hurry. John tightened his grip on her shoulder, hoping that stimulating any surviving nerves might keep her awake for a few seconds longer. “Do you know where you are?” His voice never wavered, firm in its calm but urgent in its words. “Do you recognize us? We're both here, Sherlock and I are both here. You're gonna be okay, but I need you to stay with us right now, Alexis. Try to stay awake, you have to focus with me. We're gonna get you warm, we're gonna get you out of here, just focus.”

Alexis coughed with a tremor, her lungs burning from an unexpectedly cold inhale. She slowly lifted her chin, eyes stiffening widely to see the man clutching her scalp. Her gaze rose to Sherlock's face, the sight of it eliciting the first alert spark in her expression. It wasn't relief—if anything, it looked like a sudden sense of urgency, as if she had remembered something crucially important to say. Her jaw inched open with a quick breath as her tongue curled to say something, but the energy in her lungs died in her mouth. Only timid syllables leaked from her throat, taking all of her strength to form them around chattering teeth. Sherlock's brow furrowed in response. “You can yell at me later,” he clipped softly, attempting to mask his unease with abrasiveness. Her face fell in frustration at this, the motion etching long lines in her frigid face. Another breath rattled through her ribcage as she tried to speak again, but she winced sharply as deep pain suddenly racked her skull. Her knees instinctively pulled tighter towards her stomach, and she felt the doctor's grip squeeze urgently. The pressure in her head was agonizing; she tried to cling to consciousness, but the pain was quickly drowning out the man's voice, and her head sunk heavily on her useless neck. As her sight began to drain, the sensations in her head became more amplified. Sharp, squealing sounds shrieked in her brain. They blared until they burned in her skull—they sounded a lot like sirens. Her eyelids closed, and for a brief blissful second, her entire body lost all feeling. Every nerve had sweet respite, relief flooding her veins in a strange sensation of disconnection. If she had any strength left, she might have fought it—at the moment, however, she wasn't afraid, and it had been so long since she had experienced such wonderful lack of fear. She drifted back into darkness, and with another exhale, the noises stopped.

  
* * * *

  
Mycroft's finger tapped rhythmically on the desk, the thuds percussive against the furniture's glaze. His lunch lay half-eaten by his elbow—this diet food was repulsive. The taste he could manage, but the odor alone was enough to petrify his appetite. At any rate, his focus wasn't on food at the moment—he had other matters more pressing at the moment, not to mention more palatable. His foot swiveled on his ankle impatiently. For having such as imperative field of work, he experienced quite a few periods where all he could do was wait. He certainly didn't care for tedious footwork, but he also didn't revel in twiddling his thumbs aimlessly. He'd never understand why other people mistook him as lazy; he prided himself on being a proactive person. It just so happened that while sometimes national security required a firm hand on the reins, at other times it required a gestation period of sorts. Parenthood was a hard job, but someone had to care for such a needy, tempestuous child.

He surveyed the office with a languid sigh. Perhaps he should hire an intern—that might give him something to do. The resumes themselves would make for a humorous afternoon. Of course, Anthea would have to handle the brunt of the responsibility; that might mead to a few complaints. No intern, then. Probably for the best—one child was enough.

The glint of glass caught his waning attention. He had one solitary decoration sitting on his desk; a small wooden picture frame which housed a bleary picture of his parents grinning gently at the camera. They had sent it ages ago as a “memento” with the instructions to add a photograph of Sherlock as well; they had included one from his childhood, but Mycroft had no interest in constantly looking at a face that no longer existed. Besides, reminiscing (or whatever the end goal of this was supposed to be) wasn't exactly professional. He had substituted the newspaper clipping of his brother in that ridiculous hat that the media reveled in so much—it fostered a much better office atmosphere, in the elder Holmes' opinion. The fact that this useless thing had to take up space in his office was absurd, but his mother always seemed to sense when it wasn't out; she never stepped foot in the office, but God help him if her motherly intuition told her that he had tossed the thing in the drawer. He compromised by turning it in towards him; he could tolerate the thing's presence, but the last thing he needed was to answer insufferable questions and commentary from onlookers. One poor sap had opted to leave a memo for Mycroft in the form of a post-it note on the glass, and needless to say, the boy had “transferred” to a difference office. Mycroft loathed the internal thing, but that was irrelevant. He didn't like when other people touched his things.

A tap on the door caused him to languidly lift his eyes, the bridge of his nose crinkling slightly. Anthea stood in the entryway with her loosely curved hand still brushed against the door. Her long brown locks were pulled back today, accentuating the sharp features which rested unwaveringly on her employer's face—she was one of the only people who could do so. 'Your car is waiting outside for you.”

  
Her voice was always so strangely gentle, especially for such a fiercely minded woman. She rarely spoke around him (he was always the bubbly one) but his faith in her never faltered—a rare quality in an employee these days. “Good,” he responded lightly, straightening his tie with a sigh as he stood. “And the order?”

“I sent the flowers like you asked. They arrived this afternoon.”

“Wonderful.” Mycroft stepped out from behind the desk. He snagged his coat with one hand and draped it over his arm. It hung by his waist like a shield borne for battle. “It'd be rude to not pay our respects.”

Anthea merely nodded in agreement and straightened her back. She turned on her heel—not an easy feat in those shoes—and quietly stepped out of sight as Mycroft moved towards the door. An afternoon drive would be welcome at this point, and then it was back into the fire once that car parked at their destination. Good—he had stoked the coals for far too long to simply be sitting around. Egos were rising, senses of pride were surging needlessly. There were hands to be slapped.

He really didn't like when other people touched his things.

  
* * * *

 

She'd heard a lot about heaven from her Sundays in the pews, but no one had really described it in much detail. Everyone always mentioned the choirs of angels and the glorious atmosphere; either someone was lying, or Alexis was in the wrong place. She had really expected just a tiny bit more, well, light—it was pitch dark. These sounds weren't what Alexis would call “angelic”, either. The searing wails that had filled her ears before she passed out had exchanged for small, rhythmic chirps, their high-pitched tones barely louder than a whisper. She could hear her breath rattle lowly in her lungs—it sounded like a rush of static in her head. As as awakened, everything was coming into sharper focus, including the deep ache in her body. Wait, that wasn't fair—why was she feeling pain? Her fingers twitched, eliciting a sharp sting in her palm.

With a wince, she arched her back and pressed her shoulders behind her. Something soft cradled them—so she was laying down? She could feel something heavy draped over her legs. Her head sunk like a weight into the material beneath her neck, but with an effort she managed to crack her eyes open. Light painfully flooded her vision, and with a grunt she managed to drag her arm from her side, shading her face with the form of her hand. The faint shadows shielded her brow just enough to allow her to open her eyes fully. Once her sight focused, the silhouette of her hand sharpened against the backdrop of a wide, tiled ceiling. The rectangular lights seemed garish as she focused on the fragile lines of her flesh curiously, watching the tendons pull at her command. Her mind still felt foggy and her body moved sluggishly; something still felt disconnected.

Her head fell to the side as her gaze traced down her arm and froze at the tender crux of her elbow. A long silver sliver pierced the bare skin, anchored by plastic. The needle lay brightly against the fading scars on her arm. The sight of it struck her with a wave of nerves; her pores turned to ice from the memory of the last metal fangs that had bored into his limbs. She was overcome with the furious urge to pry the contraption away. She bolted upright as she rushed to rip it out of her flesh. The tips of her fingers had barely brushed the skin before a massive hand swathed hers and locked it still in the firm grasp. “You should probably let the doctor do that.”

Alexis's eyes snapped up to see Sherlock sitting beside the bed with a stern expression on his face. His palm encompassed her hand easily, securing it safely against her limb. Suddenly the room sharpened around her as her brain was soaked in a rush of clarity. She glanced around with darting eyes at her surroundings; she was strewn in a narrow bed in a small hospital room, blocked from the hallways by textured glass windows. Outside she could see hurried bodies commuting through the hallways, and she could hear the muffled rustle of human activity. Inside the room the air was still, broken only by the accentuated bleats of the machine by her headboard. Thick blankets swaddled her lower body and hid her feet. Her forehead twinged from the movement and drained some of the strength from her neck. Sherlock shrugged her hand away and pressed gently on her shoulders to push her back into the pillow. “Easy now, you're still pretty weak.”

Alexis opened her mouth instinctively to protest, but the cushions enveloped her spine and prompted her to settle back into its comfort. She raised her forearm again, frowning at the cord that hung limply from her arm. She lifted her eyes questioningly as Sherlock met her gaze. He nodded to the needle. “It's just an IV. You were fairly dehydrated when we found you.

“Feels like they put more than water in me.” Alexis's head had stopped spinning for the moment, but she could feel the remnants of repressed pain deep in her bones. Even her tongue felt tired—she was rather impressed that her first sentence aloud wasn't slurred beyond recognition. She glanced up to the stand near her headboard, careful not to move her head. “Who brought flowers?”

“They're from Mycroft, according to the card. Wanted to extend his sincerest apologies for this ordeal.

“I'm sure he does, the asshole.” She let her eyes close briefly with a sigh. When she opened them again, Sherlock was regarding her with a raised curious eyebrow in response. “What? I think I'm allowed to be a little cranky.”

“Actually, I'm just surprised you're angry with him before you're angry with me.”

“That's my secret—I'm always angry.” She grinned and turned to him again, only to have the gesture fall when she saw his face. “C'mon, Incredible Hulk? With all TV you watch...oh, forget it.” She exhaled defeatedly with enough force to blow back strands of hair from her face.       “Why in the hell would I be angry with you?”

“You did jump out of a taxi cab to get away from me.”

“Oh, don't be so dramatic. I had it stop first, I didn't just tuck and roll.”

“Me, dramatic? Unthinkable.”

Alexis tried to shake back hair from her face. “Well, at least you didn't put a screw through my hand.”

“No, that I didn't.” Sherlock's mouth tightened in an uncomfortable smirk, which dissipated quickly when the girl sunk further back into the pillow in exhaustion. His eyes lowered briefly, shoulders slumped as he leaned his elbows against his knees. He swallowed to wet his throat in a struggle to find the right wording. “How...well, how are you feeling?”

“Can the great detective not figure that one out?” Alexis barked a laugh, lifting the forearm with the needle carefully. “The cocktail helps.”

“Been there.” He hesitated. “Are you feeling warmer?”

Alexis nodded gratefully as her toes curled beneath the blankets. That's right—she had almost frozen to death. The memory of the algid chill seemed like an echo now, barely registering in her drowsy medicated stupor. “Have I mentioned I hate the cold?” she chuckled lightly.

He half-heartedly returned the grin. “I don't think any of us blame you for that.”

Her eyes fell to the bandaged hand which lay clumsily on the sheets, resistant to her movements. Layers of gauze hid the hand's form as it clutched her palm tightly. Her brow furrowed at the thought of what rested beneath the fabric.“Is my hand gonna be alright?” she asked quietly.

“All things considering, you should make a full recovery. You might have some nerve damage, but the wound should heal in time.”

“So no more piano for me then.” Her lips thinned in a forced smile; the sarcasm felt sour on her tongue in an attempt to distract herself. It was too easy to dwell on the turbulent mix of pain, fear, and relief. She had to pretend, had to make this situation seem light and normal. Otherwise, memories would creep from the numb crevasses of her brain: the squeal of the drill, the bloody cracks in her skin, the glint of eyes beneath the brim of a cap. Her eyes widened suddenly as she darted upright, bracing her hands next to her hips as her torso straightened urgently. “Dammit, that was it!”

Sherlock's eyes watched her warily, alarmed by her abrupt outburst. He gripped her shoulder forcefully, trying to hold her to the bed without hurting her. If he let go, he was truthfully concerned that she'd leap from the mattress with the IV trailing behind her. “Hold on a minute, calm down. What are you going on about?”

“The guy, I was trying to tell you!” She desperately scanned the room, hair flopping over her shoulders as she twisted her neck. Her muscles shook under Sherlock's grasp with the effort. “Crap, need something to write it down, while the memory's fresh...”

“You're going to hurt yourself.” He applied slight pressure to her shoulder, and reluctantly she angled back into the pillow. She still hadn't gathered enough strength to resist. Her back was still stiff with tense, anxious limbs. He tried to meet her eyes, which were still frantic as they traced over the room. “What's gotten into you?”

“Gray hair—I think it was gray hair. Blonde, maybe? Dammit, what was on the hat...” Her knees curled to her chest, struggling to navigate the blankets that shrouded them. The IV snaked wildly next to her despite Sherlock's efforts to keep her still. “Five foot...maybe? Or, meters, what is that in meters...clothes, was wearing clothes...eye color, what was...dammit, I can't remember!” She clutched the locks of hair over her forehead in frustration, the roots tightly scrunched in her knuckles. Sherlock's eyes followed her earnestly; the urgency in her eyes was palpable, and he wondered if calling the doctor would be prudent at this point. Her sputtering was barely coherent as it fell from her lips; she seemed to have forgotten that Sherlock was in the room.

“Alexis, breathe. There's no need to panic.”

“I can't forget, not now!” It seemed more like a plea than an assertion. Something pinched in the skin above her sternum, and she instinctively brought her fingertips to it. Two parallel lines were etched in the skin running vertically to her collarbone. She met his gaze desperately. “Him, it's him!”      

Sherlock glanced where she touched, the sharpness in his eyes returning. “Who?” he urged lowly, his unwavering voice a strong contrast against her own.

“I'm number two.” She slid her hand away, resting the fingers against her ribs as she held his eyes pleadingly. “The Brayan case, the countdown! I saw him, I saw him, and I was supposed to die, I was supposed to be number two. I saw his face, and now I can't think of anything that is gonna help and there'll be another one and...oh God.” Her face paled. “Sherlock, there's only one more left. What the hell is he counting down to?”

Sherlock glanced to the scars, his eyes narrowing at the sight. When he raised his gaze again, the lines in his face had hardened in the mask of his work. “Are you sure it was him?"

Alexis managed to nod. “I mean, I think he was. He didn't, ya know, come out and say he was the countdown killer or anything, but he scratched these into me. He wanted me found, too...said he was looking forward to seeing me in the newspaper.” She settled willingly back into the pillow, resting her spine on the thin material. “I don't think he knew who I was—he just saw an opportunity and took it, thought it was so funny that he got away with it.”     

“Well, he didn't quite get away with it, now, did he?” Sherlock's voice was low; the words were assuring, but his tone was focused, almost excited. “He's an amateur who wants an audience, and his finale is almost here.”

“And how are we supposed to stop it before it comes to that?”

“We? You've done plenty.” Sherlock removed his hand from her shoulder and sat back in his chair, the sleeves of his coat swaying off the back of it from the movement. Alexis's nostrils flared as she took a wince of an inhale and lowered her eyes at the remark, trying to mask the sting by staring at her knees. It was probably assumptive to lump herself with Sherlock's work after the fiasco she had caused—never mind the eruption in the taxi cab, now she gotten herself kidnapped and nearly killed in her tantrum. Not exactly a helpful catalyst to the detective's efforts. Sherlock glanced to her slumped shoulders with a furrowed brow, suddenly realizing the guilt in her body language. His tongue hesitated on the roof of his mouth. “I didn't mean it like that.”

“You don't have to pander, Sherlock. I'm not exactly proud of what's happened here.”

Sherlock paused. “Well, if we're going to be honest, I don't have a lot to boast about on my end either.”

“Never stopped you before.” Alexis gave an empty chuckle, the sound of it hanging in the air more wistfully than it should have. Humility was generally Sherlock's favorite form of satire. She glanced over to see his gaze still firmly on her, but it felt different. He wasn't calculating, and it was contorted in an unfamiliar expression. It couldn't be remorse—even if he had the capacity to feel that, he'd never show it—but it was definitely softened. Was this Sherlock Holmes trying to show...sympathy? It didn't feel right; the expression was much too fragile on him, like she could reach out and it would shatter.

“I just meant that you should let me focus on him. You're in no condition to be running after murderous psychopaths at the moment.”

Her eyebrow rose skeptically. “Really? That's all you meant?”

He released a slow exhale through his nose, his mouth tightening gently again. “You really don't realize how much damage he did, do you?”

Her fingertips twitched from their bandaged stems on her wounded hand. “I think I gave a pretty good idea.”

Sherlock took a moment to collect his words. He had seen people in all different stages—many of them morbid—but he had to admit that the sight in front of him did make him uncomfortable for some reason. Seeing Alexis weakened wasn't exactly new, but seeing her like this was disconcerting. Her entire body hung wearily on its frame, and the rings around her eyes were deep and mauve within the gray lines of her face. They had cleaned the blood from her hair, but now it wove dryly from her scalp in a scraggly mane. It was obvious that she was still trying to be resilient; her eyes would brighten characteristically every once in a while, but even then it was dulled by medication and exhaustion. Sherlock had seen many pitiful things, but rarely did they make him shift in his seat like this. It irked him that this had happened under his watch, probably only a block or two away while he had say fuming in the back seat of a taxi cab. This killer had strayed a little too close, and Sherlock was determined to make that a crucial mistake. “You should probably go back to sleep. You look exhausted, and you won't be discharged until tomorrow morning.”

Alexis frowned. “That long?”

“They wanted to be safe. Your body temperature was pretty low for a while there.” He rested on arm on the back of his chair with his hand slack against the surface. Her expression was still reluctant, a fact not lost on the detective. “Are you in pain? Do you want to see about getting the dosage increased?” he prodded lightly.

“No, it's fine.” She rested her arms on top of her waist with care. “I just...dunno, kind of like the idea of being awake right now.” She turned to him with a forced smile. “Besides, what would you do, just watch me nap?”

“For a while, yes. That's what I've been doing for the rest of my time before John takes over for a bit.”

Her brow furrowed. “You're taking shifts?”

“Well, it's not like we're going to leave you in here alone. Safety and all that.” He crossed his legs lazily. “Unless, of course, you want some privacy.”

“No, it's...it's fine.” She swallowed back a childish swell of relief. As much as she wanted to revel in actually being awake and secure in her surroundings, the heaviness on her eyelids was growing hard to resist. Most of all, she was just grateful for the company—he was a prat, but it was better than the thought of being left alone again.

“I figured it would be.” His foot swiveled absentmindedly on the joint of his ankle. “For goodness sakes, just lie down already. You look pathetic.”

“Your bedside manner needs some work,” she replied, the humor a little more sincere this time. It brightened her cheeks a bit, the warm pink color struggling to pigment her skin. Her legs slid straight beneath the blankets again, her back arcing into the mattress until the pillow cradled her head. The heat beneath the covers was truthfully intoxicating; even the scratchy fabric didn't irk her. She was just grateful to be warm, something she had honestly believed she wouldn't feel again.

“I could try a bedtime story.”

A guttural laugh rose from Alexis's stomach. The sound struggled in her ribs, but the outburst was richly genuine, one of the first significant signs of life that she had displayed since wakening. “Would this story have anything to do with tobacco ash, by chance?”

“It could, although I was truthfully saving that for the lullaby.”

Another chortle racked the girl's torso, causing her legs to lift slightly off the mattress. She shivered from the ache it elicited, coughing from the effort. “As soothing as...that'd be,” she sputtered between breaths in an attempt to allay her spasming diaphragm, “I don't think that'll be necessary.”

“What, don't think I can sing?”

“I'm sure you sound like an absolute angel, Sherlock, but it'd be too much for my poor little heart at this point.”

“Well, we wouldn't want to overwhelm you, now would we?”

“Please, have a little mercy on my fragile state.” She brought the back of her hand listlessly to her forehead in a weak, dramatic gesture. “I mean, there's only so much a person can endure in a day.”

“You certainly like to test those limits.” Sherlock leaned his head into the hand braced on the top of the chair with a sigh. The long fingers framed his cheekbone with languid grace. “Sure you don't want a story? I tell a great one about maggots' life cycles.”

“Thrilling, but I'll pass.” She let her head tilt on its axis, her cheek pressed against the pillow that flooded her nostrils with the sterile odor. Her eyelashes lowered gently, but her tongue traced the back of her teeth as she struggled to form the words she needed. Her throat clenched in its hesitance, but if she didn't say something, the unspoken phrases would burn relentlessly in her lungs. “You're not gonna like this, but I, um...I'm sorry, Sherlock. You know, about all this.”

She couldn't see his face, but she could feel the heat of his gaze bore into her forehead. “You're really intent on clinging to your incessant need to apologize, aren't you?” he finally huffed.

Alexis lifted his chin slightly, brow furrowing defensively. “Look, I know this whole thing—”

“You're right, I don't like it.” Sherlock cut her off abruptly, although his voice was still low and casual. It purred in his chest with a bemused growl. “I just can't fathom how your little mind manages to actually summon this sense of remorse in you all the time. How can you subject yourself to that?”

“This is different,” Alexis protested. Strands of hair ground between the pillow and her cheeks as she raised her eyes a fraction further.       “If I hadn't bolted out of that cab like a prissy brat—”

“You think that warrants kidnapping and attempted murder?”

Her lips pressed together defensively. Out loud, the whole thing sounded ludicrous, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she had something to atone for here. The man in front of her looked restless; he likely didn't want to be here any more than she did. “It's just...this whole mess just blew up so quickly, and now it's dragged you and Dr.Watson out here, and I'm sure you were...well, not worried, but...”

“But, what?” The phrase was gentle off of Sherlock's tongue, lacking the weight that would have honestly frightened Alexis otherwise.

“Um, well...put out, I guess?”

A moment of silence passed uncomfortably. “You honestly think we're worried about convenience at this point?” he asked, lacing any real hint of questioning in his tone.

With a grunt, Alexis pulled her elbow beneath her shoulder and angled herself upright irritatedly. Hair fell haphazardly across her eyes as she glared back at him impatiently. “Look, just...take the damn apology, all right?” she barked. “Just drop your stupid rule for a second, and let me do the basic human thing of being sorry for being a pain in the ass!”

Sherlock paused, his eyes unchanging as she resisted the urge to shrink back into the covers. His mouth was pulled into a bemused line across his face; she loathed that expression. It shielded his thoughts incredibly well, and that always made her a little wary. Still, she held his gaze defiantly; she may have been tired and embarrassed, but she could been just as stubborn as he was—that seemed to be what he respected, anyway. After another quiet contemplative moment, Sherlock flashed the skin of his palms in a light gesture of surrender. “All right, consider it dropped. Far be it from me to distress a hospitalized woman.”

Alexis blinked incredulously. That...was not what she had expected to come from his mouth. She had braced for an argument, and his countenance was slack in immediate acquiescence. Not even a speck of retaliation. “You...wait, really?” she managed to stammer, mentally cringing at how idiotic that sounded following her previous assertions. So much for putting her foot down.

“Yes, really.” His spine pressed tiredly into his chair. “Now, will you please quit riling yourself up and get some rest? You look half-dead and you're not even on your feet yet.”

“Fine, pushy, pushy.” Alexis dropped her head back to the pillow, keeping a cautious eye on Sherlock as she did so. Her skull pushed heavily into the material. The smell wafted into her nose, immediately fogging her brain as her eyelids fluttered softly. It was a strange victory to succeed in apologizing to someone—kind of sad that it felt so significant, to be quite honest. A lock of hair fell against her exposed cheek, but her limb had lost the urge to drift up and shove the strands away. “If you're gonna insist on it...”

“Look who's calling who pushy.” Sherlock smirked, but he doubted that the phrase had registered very strongly in her head. Her eyes had fallen completely closed, and her breathing had slowed to a gentle rhythm. Seemed that she had finally succumbed to the weariness in her body—she had fought it for an impressive length of time. He let his fingers trace up his face until they lodged in the curls of hair beneath his ear, scratching the tender skin of his scalp. This was getting tiresome—close calls weren't exactly rare in his line of work, but this had gone much farther than he had anticipated. This girl was snared in too many webs—first Moriarty's, then Mycroft's, and now this 'countdown killer' had entered the mix. Case or client—it was clear she needed to stay close, at any rate. He slunk into further into the chair and rested his head into the crux of his elbow. Evening had come much too quickly, and a rare sensation of exhaustion had crept into his veins within the past few hours. The steady chime of the machine relaxed him as it kept a percussive beat; not quite a lullaby, but it would do. He allowed his eyes to close lightly; even his brain needed a break every once in a while. His nostrils flared with deep, slow breaths as the machine faded in his head. When they both woke, they could face those pernicious webs in due time; it'd take a copious amount of sweat, blood and effort to do so, of course. The best threats were rarely tackled otherwise, which meant an interesting game for the detective, if he could keep the stakes from getting too high. Perpetual fear was in abundant supply these days, and that was one thing that he couldn't assuage with much ease. A few hours without it was all he could grant her at the moment. Until then, they could indulge in the luxury of a few, brief hours to feel the respite of the illusion of safety, before the world outside reminded them of what await them if they should lose.


	14. A Rough Nudge

Mycroft touched his stinging cheek with the gentle prod of his fingertips. Blood prickled beneath the skin as the irritation blossomed in a red scourge across his complexion. People didn't hit him often; many acquaintances had expressed their ardent desire to do so, but none had been so stupid as to actually do it. It took an especially idiotic or especially fearless person to assault the unofficial caretaker of the country. He recomposed his politely empty smile, gripping the head of his cane tightly in an attempt to recover his patience. His gaze lifted to meet his assailant, the mark on his face matching her blushing mane of hair as Molly Hooper watched him with fiery eyes.

“My apologies. Didn't intend to frighten you.”

“What...in...the...hell are you doing in here?” The woman's snarl was a stark contrast to her innocuous demeanor; her normally gentle face suddenly hardened into a threatening mask. Mycroft usually worried about trained gunman when it came to safety—funny, how his greatest concern would be a large-eyed woman with auburn hair knotted against her head.

“I'll take it you don't get many visitors.”

“None that get into my locked lab and pop out behind me!”

“A locked door doesn't mean much in my world.”

“Well, it does to the rest of the civilized world!” She stepped back from him, hoping to huff the staunch odor of his cologne from her nostrils. For man with such a demanding presence, he had been surprisingly quiet when she walked through the door. He must have been standing out of her line  of sight when she had entered the lab in a flurry; she must have missed him in her focus. Her steps had masked his own as he walked behind her, probably with that damned smug look on his face. He must have thought it amusing that he could creep up behind her without her noticing, coming near enough to reach out and brush her shoulder. He was standing like a friend in conversation, much too close for a stranger. Once satisfied, he had broken the silence by lowly clearing his throat, prompting her to whirl around with a yelp and strike him openhandedly in the face. The blow had been harsh enough to angle his face towards the floor, making an audible noise as skin cracked into skin.

“My circumstances are slightly... different.” His jaw felt sore from the movement—how was her hand not aching?

“Not my fault no one taught you any manners.”

“Now, don't bring my mother into this. She did her best with us, the poor woman.”

“Drama queens, the lot of you. Your brother's just as thick-headed.” Molly shook her head and turned on her heel, blowing a flyaway strand of hair from her face. “What is it with you people and your impossible need to sneak up on me?”

Mycroft's blow lifted fractionally. “You know who I am?”

“Sherlock practically hung a wanted poster of you on the wall. Seems awfully fond of you.” Molly walked down the length of the counter, her attention diverted to the laboratory again. Her morning preparation took precedent over her unexpected guest.

“Our relationship is...unique.” He glowered indignantly as he saw her attention waning. She seemed much too comfortable; he wasn't accustomed to having someone be so dismissive of him. He usually had the element of surprise, but this woman was neither shocked nor intimidated by his presence. “He failed to mention the violent lab technician standing guard.”

“You break into my lab, you're lucky that's all I do to you.” Molly turned back to her visitor coldly. “Now unless you came to volunteer to nap on my slab, I suggest you tell me what I can help you with, Mr. Holmes.”

To business, then. That was a little disheartening; he had a whole speech to answer the incessant “who are you” and “I'll call the police” diatribes. How disappointing—he had crafted such good zingers, too. He was tempted to deliver them anyway—it was sad to let an eloquent speaker mute his voice—but the woman in front of him looked like she wanted to raise a stern hand to the other side of his jaw, and he wasn't eager to have matching cheeks at that point. His weight shifted off of his umbrella as he slid a hand into his suit jacket, gripping a small package that had been tucked in the inside pocket. He retrieved it with lithe fingertips and held it carefully in the air. “I have a sample that needs to be run,” he quipped lightly.

Molly frowned at the tan package in the man's grip. Her eyes glazed with steely disapproval. “I don't do private work,” she spat back bitterly.

“Of course not, you're an ethical young lady. That's part of why I'm entrusting you with this.”

Molly folded her arms, the material of her lab coat rustling as it rubbed together. “You should do parties. I almost believed that impression of someone being convincing.”

What a stubborn woman. He kept running into people giving him lip; he missed the good old days where he actually frightened people. It made his job so much easier. He swallowed back a sigh and wagged the package gently. “This isn't personal, Ms. Hooper, I assure you. This is a matter of national security, and requires the utmost confidentiality.”

Molly rested her hips on the lab counter, arms still crossed over her ribs. She still looked unimpressed, but her eyes had focused back on Mycroft in full. “And you think I can keep a secret from your brother?”

“Of course; he has no reason to question it. After all, it is just an ordinary sample on the outside, nothing worthy of his attention.”

With tightly pressed lips, Molly crossed one leg over the other as one of her fingers mindlessly tapping on her arm. “So if it's so importantly ordinary, why are you asking me to do it?”

Asking—oh, that was cute. It took all of his might to not call her precious. “Because people have the tendency to overlook you, and that works to my advantage.”

A moment of silence passed as her face warped incredulously. Once she confirmed that those words had indeed come out his mouth, she barked a harsh laugh. “Oh, please, I might swoon.”

“Is the childish banter really necessary?”

“So you want me to do it, because I'm forgotten and taken for granted? Aren't you worried that useless-little-Molly will mess up your precious sample?”

“I wouldn't seek you out if I didn't think you were capable of it.” Mycroft's voice was firm now, the words clipped with a sense of unspoken urgency. “I have no doubt in your ability, Ms. Hooper, that's not the question. The fact of the matter is, people don't look for trouble when they're around you, which works to both of our benefits.” He turned the package in his fingers, the pale surface catching the light. “Legions of unsavory characters would give their lives to keep me from handing this over, but I don't intent on indulging them. It is, however, dependent on you.”

Molly's eyes narrowed, following the package skeptically with her gaze. “And what makes you think they won't follow that thing here?”

“They don't know it exists, at least, not yet. It is imperative that the information from this sample be preserved and sent to the proper personnel before it falls into more careless hands.” He flipped the object into his palm and set it gently down on the counter beside him. His eyes locked onto her face, boring into her sight with dark sincerity. “While I hardly wish to frighten you, it is imperative that you complete this task, and complete it with haste. The lives of those you care about could be at risk otherwise.”

She bristled at the statement. “Is that a threat, Mr. Holmes?”

“Goodness, no. I'm not in that business these days.” He stepped back from the counter, mouth twitching into a brief smirk. “However, my personnel are regrettably under the surveillance of the people who are, hence the reason that I leave this task in your hands instead of theirs.”

“So they can hunt me down instead?” Her voice cracked indignantly.

“You would be perfectly safe. The donor's name will register as an alias, as to not draw attention. No code is uncrackable, I'm afraid, but it will take them much longer to make the connection if it is passed off as a routine sample in a lab, versus a high-security genetics laboratory hidden by the government. Samples there are generally watched a bit more closely.”

“Then hide them in that fancy code of yours. I don't want any part of governmental conspiracy nonsense.”

Mycroft exhaled stiffly out of his nose. When he inhaled again, the air was reluctant on his tongue, a genuine furrow curling his brow in concern. “If you get the genetic information from that sample, it will take the venom of this snake's fangs, Ms.Hooper. I understand your hesitance, but it will take one bite for the whole nation to fall.” With a gentle push he nudged the package down the surface of the counter. It slid with ease until it tapped Molly's elbow with its sharp corner. When she raised inquisitive eyes, he nodded encouragingly towards the tan envelope. “At least read the label, if nothing else. I think it will do wonders to change your mind.”

Molly flippantly grabbed the package and tossed it over in her palm. The surface was smooth against her skin and wafted a sterile aroma into her nostrils. Her thumb slid under the loosened top flap, lifting an arched brow to questioningly meet Mycroft’s gaze. He nodded carefully; the gesture seemed less encouraging and more like granting permission. She angled the opening towards her palm; the heaviest item tumbled into her hand while its thinner cohabitants remained firmly lodged in their papery abode. A small vile pressed into the stem of her thumb, filled with a thick, familiar crimson substance. Dark ink had been neatly etched on the glass. Molly’s eyes narrowed at the name. “How’d you get this?”she demanded sharply.

“I called in a favor.” He lifted his nose with an arc of his chin, eyes still steadily fixated on her. “That label is the only connection to Alexis Messek and this sample.”

“Shouldn’t her information already be in the system?”

“Not after her exposure to the pathogen. I would rather say that constitutes an update.”

“What about when she was in the hospital? Nobody took a blood sample there to check her levels?”

“They were strictly instructed not to, unless absolutely necessary. Those who disregarded my warning became unlucky subjects of manhunts, despite my best efforts. The information was erased, but it’s always unfortunate to have good-hearted nurses show up on the missing persons’ list.”

Molly’s fingers closed gently over the vial. “And I’m supposed to trust your ‘best efforts’ now?” she barked.

Mycroft’s expression refused to waver from her exasperation. “The game is different now. Variables have shifted, and I get payed my meager wages to shift those variables in my favor. I won’t pretend that you wouldn’t be in some degree of danger, but let’s be honest, Ms.Hooper; between dating criminal psychopaths and befriending my brother of all people, it’s nothing you aren’t already accustomed to.”

Her mouth tightened instinctively at the mention of her romantic history. Evidently it frequented more gossip circles than she’d realized, if even this person knew of it. You accidentally date one murderous head of a criminal empire, and no one ever let you hear the end of it. It hardly surprised her at this point. Her chin tucked towards her chest in a sudden realization. “This means she was telling the truth, doesn’t it…”

The elder Holmes shrugged gently. “I’d hardly call her a liar.”

“Then I’m doing this to help get the antidote from her?”

“Well, it’s Inspector Lestrade just the chattiest little monkey. That’s the idea, yes. Better we find it than our...competitors.”

The word was cold off of Mycroft’s tongue, and Molly could immediately guess the boyish face that the man was envisioning with such apprehension. “But how do they not already have it if they...well, had her for so long?” she asked hesitantly.

Mycroft shrugged again, this time more in frustration than mockery. “I would have assumed so as well, but the urgency of their pursuits seems to indicate otherwise. Perhaps she escaped before they could retrieve a viable sample.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Her fingers clutched the vial tightly. The heat from her body allayed the chill of the surface as her skin warmed the glass. “Lucky for us, I guess.”

“A little less lucky for her, I’m afraid.” Mycroft stifled a sigh void of saccharine sympathy. “We’ve yet to see if she’s escaped in one piece. The snake is snapping at her heels; I’m sure she’d be thankful for any relief you could give her.”

Molly’s eyes fell back to the vial with a frown. She didn’t know much about this girl beyond the brusque description Lestrade had hastily given her, but if Sherlock and this man were both hovering over her like bloodhounds, her history couldn’t be any shade of pretty. Molly recognized the quiet expressions, the lowered yet observant eyes, the tentative movements; the greatest fear was usually silent. This girl had every reason to be afraid and no venue to properly assuage it, lest she betray the fact that her fear even existed. Mycroft could use her, Sherlock could distract her; maybe Molly could help her. After all, it was her job to hold the scalpel; others connected the dots, but she sliced sinew from bone, bullets from brains, vocal lies from tangible truths. She could slice through the remnants of web still ensnaring this girl.

Wordlessy, she retrieved a kimwipe and quickly saturated it with a pump of rubbing alcohol from a plain brown bottle on the counter. The thin tissue turned a weak hue of gray as she carefully wadded the material in her fingertips. She gingerly pressed it to the surface of the vial, and with a few purposeful movements, the black script on the glass began to dissolve beneath her touch. The ink soiled the wipe in a bleary dark stain until only a neatly written “A” survived the smeary carnage. She glanced back up to the elder Holmes, who was watching her work curiously. With a shallow breath, she straightened her shoulders and met his eyes firmly. “I’ll do what I can,” she said finally, tucking the vial into the pocket of her lab coat.

Mycroft paused for a moment before giving a small, slow smile. “That’s all I could ever ask for, Ms.Hooper.”

Molly turned to face him again, her facial features solidifying into a stern expression again. Her eyes gleamed fiercely beneath a pale brow. “Now, unless you plan on renting a hatch in my refrigerators, get the hell out of my morgue.”

Mycroft’s jaw tilted thoughtfully. “Well, aren’t you a forceful little lab rat. And if I decide to meander her instead?”

“I’ll find a new place for that umbrella of yours.”

That hardly seemed hygienic. He was tempted to play off of her testiness, but then again, she was a mortician--she had probably seen worse. He reserved himself to a dismissive chuckle as he angled himself towards the exit. She didn’t so much as turn her head as he strolled to the door; she had already pushed him from her head space, now focusing her wiry gaze on the day’s work ahead of her, He had always wondered about this person; his brother was always so silent on the subject of the company he kept. Sherlock was in good hands, at least; good, solid, hard-hitting hands that would keep him in line. That was a relief--Mycroft worried  when his brother got too coddled. With a smirk, he pushed through the door in a saunter as Molly Hooper picked up the scalpel behind him.

 

****

 

As the sole of her boots noisily struck the carpet beneath them, Sally was reminded of why she hated the stretch of hallway leading to Lestrade’s office. The flooring here shuddered beneath every step; even a casual stroll through here sounded like a stampede. Sally loathed it--the Inspector loved it, as it meant that he could ever anyone approach his office with ease. On particularly slow days, Andersen had joined her experimentation in finding the most quiet method of approach. The winning gait required slinking by the wall with heavy heels and soft knees; it looked ridiculous, but victory didn’t always look majestic. Sneaking up on Lestrade was her God-given perk of the job, and contributed so many happy memories--like the time she caught him talking to his donuts in squeaky voices, or the time she caught him belting out Beyonce lyrics, or the time she caught him “fixing” his collar to mimic Sherlock’s with ruffled hair. These were precious moments to her, and she refused to give them up just because the man was too embarrassed to fix a couple floorboards.

It would also help if he could just shut his damn door all the way. His open door policy seemed to more the product of his forgetfulness rather than his effort to be welcoming. She’d seen him storm into his office in the morning, mind fumbling to focus on a single thing; they were lucky he remembered to throw his trousers on for the day, let alone close a door behind him. He was certainly good at his job--Sally had no qualms about following him into the field. His blinders just got a little thick at times, and then the old boy was just so easy to spook.

She’d give him one day off, though. He’d probably already heard her trampling down the hallway, anyway; plenty of time to hide his moment of shame and put on his bossy expression. Or put a donut in his face, it was hard to guess which one these days, and his attempts at doing both at once usually elicited an unprofessional amount of laughter. She shook the loose strands of hair out of her face to return them to her mane and straightened her jacket across her shoulders; time for business, then. The entryway to his office was full of light, so at least someone was there. The door, as usual, was cracked open; almost shut, but not quite. He had been so close, the poor devil. She nudged the door open with her elbow, and it swung wide with ease as she gently reach out a hand to tap invitingly on the door frame. The sight that greeted her caused her hand to freeze suddenly against the wooden surface. Her bright eyes narrowed as she stepped inside, her gait slowing from its familiar ease into a calculated stride. A fallen paper crackled sharply beneath her foot, and she came to a complete halt.

Lestrade wasn’t here, but someone had been. The file cabinets had been emptied and the drawers were flung haphazardly onto the floor; papers and scraps of cardboards covered nearly every hard surface in a layer of confidential confetti. The room looked like the aftermath of a shaken snowglobe. The pages were scattered and torn and disregarded hastily; Sally recognized a few of the surviving case numbers, and those sequences were never supposed to meet daylight again. These cases had been touchy, containing witness statements and suspect names and criminal network details, and yet they had all been tossed aside like trash. Whoever had done this had been looking for something specific, and judging by the state of the room, they hadn’t found it. Even the computer had been knocked at a weird angle, hinting that the electronic search had been equally unfruitful. All the blinds were lowered--not too uncommon, as Lestrade would do so when he was tired of persistent visits. Sally stooped to grasp a document fluttering at her ankle, the faint stamp of a footprint still barely visible in its fibers. She heard another rustle behind her, barely louder than the whisper of a paper shifting in the slight breeze. Her knees straightened slowly as she turned to face the sound, pausing as her eyes met the gaze of the enormous man standing silently pressed against the wall.

A split second passed before the stranger determined he was discovered, and he immediately lunged at the sargent at an alarming speed. He towered over her by at least half a meter, and she felt her tightened muscles bruise as his broad form collided forcefully into her. She stumbled in an attempt to keep her feet beneath her, but the man’s momentum sent her tumbling to the carpet. He pinned her knees against her chest as he wrapped his massive hands around her throat. His surprisingly sweet cologne wafted heavily into her nose as he pressed weight into his palms, her esophagus shuddering uselessly under the crushing strain. She tried to choke out a cry of warning--or for backup, whichever was quicker--but behind the blinds, no one stirred. With a tremendous effort, she curled her hands and dug her fingernails fiercely into the man’s heavy-set eye-sockets. Immediately his grip loosened as he jerked back with a yelp, smacking her hands away with enough force to make the bones sting. Sally coughed raspily as she leapt back to free her feet. She snapped her elbow across his face as she moved, angling his jaw towards the floor with the satisfying crunch of bone on flesh. She managed to rush upright with a slight quiver in her legs as he reached for her again. Gripping the back of his head, she slammed the bridge of his nose into the bend of her knee; he slumped with a bloody whimper once she released her hold. Before he could recover, she seized his arm and arced it painfully behind his ribs, sweeping him onto his stomach with a rough kick. She dropped a knee into his back as she pressed onto his arm--any flailing movements only exacerbated the strain and threatened to snap the limb. A few moments passed as he grunted and struggled beneath her, failing to collect his thick limbs under his torso; on the other side of the blinds, she could hear shifting movement.

“You...stupid...bitch!” he growled, whining as his joints ground from the effort. His shorn head slammed against the carpet, speckling the fibers with the blood from his face. “I’ll pop that pretty head off your shoulders, you stupid pig, turn that smug little face to pulp-!”

“You’re under arrest,” Sally announced hollowly, the words more from muscle memory than anything. Her efforts were entirely focused on keeping him pinned to the floor; she heard shuffling movement in the doorway, but didn’t dare raise your eyes.

“You’ll burn, the lot o’ ya!” His ribcage rattled with shaky laughter beneath her. Her arms ached from the effort to keep him down--even when targeting his pressure points, he bucked with boarish strength, stubborn and relentless. Was he on something? That would explain the wild eyes that he flashed at her whenever he whipped his neck in her direction. “Took what didn’t ya? You greedy, snotty bastards!”

Other bodies knelt by her and laid heavy hands on her attacker, pressing him to the floor while he roared in protest. Sally only stood when she heard the familiar click of handcuffs wrap around his wrists; she stiffly straightened her legs she stepped back to view the suspect in full. He turned his face to see her through crimson-rimmed eyes, forehead wrinkling in a sudden bout of fury. “Give her back!” he screamed, locking his gaze as he flailed helplessly. “You don’t know what to do with her! Stupid Snow Whites with the poisoned apple in yer hands, take a bite, I dare ya! Goes to waste with ya, ya sniveling selfish twats. Give her back, you damn cowards, give her back!”

The officer near the man’s neck shoved his bleeding face into the carpet; the fibers muffled the words as he continued to angrily shriek his desperate demands. Sally stepped back slowly, gingerly touching the tender flesh of her throat. She felt a hand softly brush her shoulder, and she turned to see another female officer warily watching her movements. “You all right?” the officer asked tentatively.

“Yeah, Dansen, I’m fine.” Her voice was still hoarse, but it didn’t hurt so much to swallow. Her eyes narrowed at her squirming attacker on the floor. He’d occasionally wrench purposefully in her direction; if he wasn’t restrained, he looked like he’d rip out her throat with his teeth. Any intention to keep his efforts secret were gone, and with them, his personal discretion. He was absolutely rabid, almost painfully so. Definitely some kind of cocktail running through his veins. “Just had a nasty surprise, is all.”

“Looks like he made a regular mess of the place,” Dansen quipped, glancing around in disdain. She pushed a crumpled pile of papers away from her heel. “The hell was he looking for?”

“Nothing we want him to see.” Sally sighed through her nose, trying to loose the tension still squeezed in her muscles from adrenaline. She could still feel the faint marks that enveloped her neck; it wasn’t often someone was stupid enough to put their hands on her. “Guessing by his temper tantrum that he didn’t find it.”

“Poor baby,” Dansen sniffed. Her lips stretched bitterly. “Let’s get him tucked in nice and snug into a cell.”

“You all go on and take him,” Sally urged, pulling her cellphone from her pocket while watching her assailant carefully. “I gotta phone Lestrade.”

“About this stowaway?” Dansen’s brow raised. “That urgent?”

Sally looked to her cohort with a stern frown. The speaker clicked hollowly to life as she drew it to her face. “Gotta ask the fairy godmother what’s going on here,” she replied thinly as the man’s cry drowned out the first ring. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing about the women of Sherlock; so much spunk!


	15. Illuminated

The rustle of the newspaper in Dr.Watson’s hands always seemed to fill the flat so easily; the dark walls echoed small sounds incredibly well. To Alexis’s quiet relief, living with Sherlock had evidently trained him to be unfazed by the presence of others in his space. He meandered freely about the flat with a low subconscious hum in his throat, his dark green robe secured snugly around his waist. Alexis watched him wander as she sat cross-legged on the couch with a cup of tea clutched in her unbandaged hand. His usually tidy hair stuck out from his head at various angle in tufts, which he scratched at mindlessly. He settled contentedly into his armchair and flipped his paper open with a cross of his legs. Alexis tried to catch a glimpse of the print emblazoned on the backpage; she was never sure what she expected to see, and she was consistently disheartened yet oddly relieved that she could never catch a name that she recognized. She glowered down at her tea crossly as the heat still prickled at the fingers wrapped around the cup’s handle. The liquid would sear her lips if she tried a mouthful, but she could feel the small ache in her head crying for caffeine. It was sweet that Mrs.Hudson remembered her in her early routines, but the poor woman started her days at an ungodly hour of the morning; the tea must have been white-hot then if it was still scalding now. Of course, Alexis was also probably sensitive to heat at the moment, given the circumstances. It had been a few days since she’d come back from the hospital, but the memory of pruny frozen skin hadn’t quite left her body yet. The blanket draped around her shoulders felt like a sanctuary.

“Sleep well?”

Alexis raised her eyes at the sound of Dr. Watson’s voice, although his gaze was still locked in the folds of his newspaper. His tone was always so starkly different compared to Sherlock’s; while Sherlock’s voice was low and flowed easily, Dr.Watson’s voice always seemed abrupt around her. He didn’t seem uncomfortable, but it did seem a little forced, like he spoke a bit out of obligation. Something told her that he’d be just fine if they remained in silence. “Oh, um, yeah, I slept fine.”

“Good, good.” He flipped a page with a stout thumb. “And the hand?”

“Not bleeding anymore.” Her fingers twitched encouragingly--that was a good sign. The bandages were clean against her palm, although the flesh still ached from the wound if she moved too urgently.

“Good.” He cleared his throat with the tilt of his jaw. “Hungry?”

“No, thanks, I’m good.”

“Good, good.”

Alexis gave a weak, confused smile. The roundabout conversation felt so constructed--why was there such awkward tension? Granted, she hadn’t been alone with Dr.Watson much before--not while conscious, anyway. Wait, was she more comfortable around Sherlock, of all people? That couldn’t be a good sign. She swallowed a sigh as she looked defeatedly back to her tea and placed it carefully on the couch. Knowing her luck lately, she’d probably remember it the moment it turned ice cold. She heard the paper rustle again, and out of the corner of her vision she could see Dr.Watson glancing to her over the edge of his newspaper. She knew that look--that jade sheen of his eyes was quietly evaluating her. Sherlock did that all the time, but it felt different when the doctor did it; his gaze was gentle through sharpened pupils. Part of him probably viewed her through a medical lens--no doubt her “symptoms” were obvious--but he could also see the vulnerabilities that Sherlock couldn’t, and that was what worried her the most. Sherlock knew what happened to her; John Watson knew what it would do to her. The thought of both unnerved her.

“There’s leftovers in the fridge, if, you know. Change your mind.” He looked back to his paper as Alexis furrowed her brow at the light comment.

“Your version or Sherlock’s version of leftovers?”

His shoulders shook with a short chortle. “No severed heads, if that’s what you’re asking.”

That only eased her concerns slightly. She had yet to encounter a full head in the fridge (and she couldn’t tell if the doctor was joking or simply accustomed to such a phenomenon), but she had accidentally brushed against Sherlock’s container of “soup” before. Her instinctive shriek had elicited a glint of amusement in the detective’s eyes, as much as Sherlock had denied it. He had smirked through a hollow apology and murmured some flippant commentary on her finally starting to use her lungs properly. Any chance to not repeat that incident would be wonderful. “That can’t be hygienic.”

“Nope, not really.” Dr.Watson shrugged. “As Sherlock told me, _not all science can be hygienic, John_.”

Evidently Dr.Watson was well-versed in imitating Sherlock’s scorn; his voice dropped into the characteristic disdainful pitch so easily. “You didn’t ask for clean science, you asked for a clean fridge.”

“You are more than welcome to explain that to him. God knows I’ve tried.”

Well, that would explain the abundance of dry goods in the flat. It didn’t surprise her that the doctor ate so much canned food anymore. She settled back into her cushion, placing a hand gently over her cup to stabilize it. “Sleeping Beauty still locked in his tower this morning?”

“He’s not a beauty before noon, believe me.” Dr.Watson snorted. “Must be one of his recharging days. Even transport needs a rest every once in a while.”

“Maybe he should invest in a solar panel or two, charge on the go. Or a mini wind turbine, just stick it on top of that hat of his.” It was a stupid sentiment, but Alexis grinned anyway. She wasn’t the genius here, her humor didn’t have to be clever for her to enjoy it.

“Eh, he settles for nicotine, unfortunately.” He dropped the paper to his lap in a sudden thought. “Speaking of, I’m recruiting you in that.”

Alexis raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Recruiting me in what, now?”

“Getting him to quit. He swears he’ll stop and begs me to make sure he does, and then he throws his little tantrums and it all starts over again.”

“You realize I’m his patch girl lately, right?”

“Even better, you’re in the perfect position to cut him off.”

She tightened her mouth to constrict a resigned sigh. “I’ll try, but you realize that means telling the genius man-child ‘no’. He won’t be happy.”

Dr. Watson chuckled in surprise at the blatant description. If it were anyone else, he would bristle at the clipped insult; it was her, though, and she had spent enough time with Sherlock to have earned the right to throw a few unsavory epithets his way now and then. He set his haphazardly folded paper on his chair.“He rarely is without something to complain about. Just wait until he doesn’t have a case to distract him, that’s when it gets fun.”

“Fun…?”

“That’s when severed heads start showing up next to the take-out containers.” He scratched at the drying peaks of hair on his scalp. “Could be worse, it used to lead to bullets in the wall. Learned not to leave firearms around him.”

That image still amused and frightened her whenever the incident was mentioned; she could just imagine the furious gleam in the man’s sharp face as he angrily pulled the trigger. Funny in retrospect, probably horrifying at the time. “Don’t give him a gun when he’s grumpy, got it.”

“Hell, don’t give him a gun, period. Gun safety isn’t really his forte.” The doctor shrugged. “Besides, I already told him that you’re helping me with this. He pouted, but he’s on board.”

The satisfied twitch of his mouth made Alexis grin. It was a little bemusing that he would volunteer her so suddenly, but he seemed satisfied with himself. She leaned against the arm of the couch, curling her legs beneath her hips. “Sneaky, sneaky--I think he’s rubbing off on you.”

“You assume I wasn’t sneaky before. He may be a crazy bastard, but there’s a reason I can manage him.”

Alexis suspected there were several reasons that he might not immediately admit to. The doctor was a man of few words, but he was anything but ordinary, as much as he tried to appear normal. There simply was no way to be normal here in 221B; there was just this weird mix of trying to make things fit in both worlds. It kind of worked, actually--they were a strange crowd, but there was some reprieve of being outcasts. She wasn’t sure if that had been the intention of putting her here, but it definitely did make waking up every day a little easier. Things just didn’t feel right out there anymore, and she couldn’t tell if it was because of the place or because of her. Something just felt...broken, a cog out of place somewhere, and it had felt like that ever since she had washed up on shore. Even when she had managed to feel a little more human, she just couldn’t shake the shadow of that ship. She was starting to lose the hope that she ever would, and the anger towards it was fading, replaced by that small parasitic fear. She was ashamed that she couldn’t get herself together, and no one else was going to fix her, that much she knew. If the outside world was lost to her now, well, at least she had a place that didn’t feel so alien. She hadn’t realized how much that might matter to her.

The thought must have tugged at the lines of her face, as Dr.Watson frowned suddenly as he watched her expression fall. She froze at first, wondering if he could decipher what she was thinking; for some reason, it made her feel guilty. There was no reason to atone for what she was feeling, logically, but logic didn’t really factor into the equation all too well; it seemed safer to keep it secret, but also made it a dirty, frustrating secret. It took the doctor a few moments to finally speak. “We could get you a cot out here if you wanted, if you got tired of crashing on the couch all the time. Can’t be too comfortable.”

She had to suppress a small sigh of relief. He must have mistaken her expression for discomfort as she angled lazily against the cushions behind her. Of course he would--why wouldn’t he? They had been conversing so casually before, there was no reason for him to suspect anything else. “I’m used to it,” she responded lightly, her mouth tightening immediately as she realized the implications of what she had said. “Crashing on the couch, I mean. Did it all the time back at home.” Her tongue softened at the thought of home; no, no, that was dangerous. That line of thinking only made her heart hurt. Her chest squeezed with worry at the familiar questions that reared their pernicious heads--were her parents safe? Did they know she was alive? Did Moriarty know where they were?

The cushion beneath Dr.Watson squeaked weakly as the room quieted suddenly. Neither person knew quite how to proceed from that topic, and the stalling conversation crumbled into silence. The doctor shifted in his seat, and she couldn’t tell if he just didn’t notice that every pore on her body iced over in anxiety. “Well, um...good.”

Back here again. Alexis was almost relieved, but a twinge of frustration spiked in her ribs. It wasn’t that she wanted to talk about these things, but she hated that she couldn’t. Otherwise when these questions surfaced, they burned. She reached out and grasped her cup--the heat felt nice on her palm now, and it was enough to distract herself for even a brief moment. Her lips parted slightly, the scarred skin still aching against the air. Her eyes lowered slightly, and with a slow inhale through her nostrils, she gathered enough courage in her lungs to finally eke one timid question.

“Do you think my family’s okay?”

Her voice was barely more than a huff of air off of her lips, but the words were surprisingly clear within the confines of the flat. The doctor’s gaze snapped to her face; she could feel its lukewarm heat against her brow. His body tensed with an inhale still lingering on his tongue. This wasn’t a surprising question, as he had been anticipating something like this for a while ever since she had started talking. He was kind of glad she had asked him of all people--Sherlock didn’t really handle these kinds of things gently. Still, just because the doctor knew the fragile nature of the situation didn’t mean he knew what to say. He knew how to suture wounds and mend bones; this kind of suffering was different. Part of him wished she had waited to ask until she had some more of her strength back, but he also knew that these kinds of things didn’t like to wait. He recognized the dark hue that hung beneath her eyes--if he knew how to help her avoid the night terrors, he would. He cleared his throat gruffly. “Well, um, have you tried calling them? You know, to let them know...?” he asked carefully.

Alexis snatched the phone Mycroft had given her from beside her thigh and shook it gently. “Phone won’t let me,” she responded with a small shrug. An empty apologetic smile pulled at her lips. “Guess I’m not allowed.”

The look on her face was pained. John quietly added that to his list of reasons to punch Mycroft in his smug little mouth one day. “Have you tried a payphone? Could just be the service.”

Alexis rested her hand in her lap as her mouth pulled in trepidation. When she raised her face, her mouth was twisted in a forced smile, but her eyes were softened hesitantly. “I thought about it, but then I got...scared.” That felt so stupid falling off her tongue; just saying it felt juvenile. She was an adult woman, yet here she was, afraid to break the rules. She desperately hoped he wouldn’t ask why she was afraid, because explaining would be even more childish. How was she supposed to explain that she was scared that Mycroft would find out and chastise her, or even retaliate? Or that she was petrified that Big Bad Moriarty would trace the number? That she was afraid to find out if Moriarty had found the people on the other end of the line? There were too many “what-if”s that paralyzed her fingers before she could dial the number. She had only tried once on the cellphone, and the blocked number had only worsened her fears.

The doctor only frowned in response. The lines around his mouth crinkled as he clenched his jaw thoughtfully. He gave a forced exhale. “Well, I suppose we can ask Mycroft the next time we see him...he’s the guy who knows everything, after all.”

Alexis wasn’t fond of the idea of asking anything from Mycroft. That practically delivered her insecurities into his open palms--not that he didn’t already know them, but at least this way she preserved a bit of her own personal dignity. Shreds of her pride were all she had left at this point. “Not sure this is something he wants to tell me…” she responded hesitantly.

Dr.Watson grunted disapprovingly. “We’ll just see about that. Mycroft’s good, but he’s still a brat in a suit. I know how to deal with people like him.”

He seemed so sure of himself, and it was actually a bit refreshing. Alexis couldn’t move Mycroft any more than she could move England itself, but if anyone could sway that hard-faced creature, it would be Dr.Watson. The total lack of fear was either incredibly sincere or an amazingly realistic act; either way, very little seemed to intimidate this man. She kind of envied him for that--she could definitely see why the sporadic Sherlock Holmes was drawn to the pillar that was his flatmate. It was nice to have an anchor around this chaotic place. She wondered how he did it--was the strength innate, or did he learn it? If she could even pretend to be half as collected as him, it would be a miracle after all of this.

His fingers tapped the arm of his chair as he turned his face towards her again. His gaze was firm now, gentle but serious. Her skin felt transparent beneath it, and she had to resist the urge to scratch at the prickling pores. His mouth slackened slightly, pausing before he spoke.“I’m going to ask you something,” he said finally, “and I want the honest answer, not the one you feel like you’re supposed to give. Believe me, I’m a doctor, I know the difference.”

Alexis nodded cautiously. “Okay, go for it.”

“I mean it, now. I’m sure you’ve heard this over and over again, because I’ve gone through the same thing, and I don’t want any of this polite business. Tell me the truth.”

Her chest twinged tightly in a surge of apprehension, but she forced herself to breathe in slowly. “Alright, cross my heart. What is it?”

Dr.Watson locked eyes with her, his expression stern. “Are you okay?”

Alexis blinked as her tongue stilled behind her teeth. What a Pandora’s box of a question--it seemed so innocently easy, but those three little words could unlock a fury. She pulled the blanket tightly against her shoulders as she resisted the urge to release the “fine” instinctively filling her cheek. Judging by the doctor’s gaze, that answer wouldn’t satisfy him anyway--no doubt he had heard the same speech from every embarrassed patient that walked into his clinic. Not only that, he was a soldier, and she wondered how often he had recited the same response himself. Maybe she was overreacting though; after all, was it really strange for a doctor to ask such a thing after the events of the past few days? “Well--yeah, for the most part. I mean, I’m alive, right? Just have this annoying hole in my hand.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His jaw was still tight with the tension of the topic--this was difficult to talk about with anyone, let alone with someone who was practically a stranger. His eyes were softened, though, and even he couldn’t allay her struggle, he could at the very least validate its existence. It was a small gesture, but one that he knew could make a big difference. Alexis fought the the slump of her spine as her shoulders dropped in a moment of acquiescence. Her teeth unclenched reluctantly behind her lips as she inhaled slowly through her nose. “That’s...kind of a long story,” she admitted with a tinge of bitterness.

Dr.Watson nodded. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to; the fallen lines in his face were the first sincere display of sympathy she’d seen in a while. It wasn’t pity like she’d come to bristle under, and most importantly, there was no fear in his eyes. She had become so used to people being nervous to interact with her, and she still couldn’t tell if they were more afraid of accidentally distressing her or of her potential reaction. They’d smile to her face and then whisper urgently about how fragile her situation was--they always thought she didn’t notice. Was she still all there, they’d ask? I mean, how could she be, after what happened to her? Apparently she was healthy fodder for rumors. She was a nuisance to some, but the general consensus seemed to be that she was a time bomb; only a matter of time before she broke down, or worse.

“Figured as much.” The doctor’s voice was stiff with discomfort. That didn’t really surprise her; he didn’t seem like the type who really talked about these kinds of things. Hell, was anyone, really? He sighed lengthily through his nose as his gaze drifted lazily, losing its focus on her as his head tipped into the crux of his fingers to rest. “We really should get you in with somebody about that...I mean, Sherlock has the sensitivity of a rock, and I’m a doctor, not a psychologist, who we really should have you talking to.”

“Does it help?”

“What, therapy?”

“Yeah. Did it help you?”

Dr.Watson’s mouth tightened, and Alexis immediately regretted what she asked. She hadn’t meant it to be belligerent; it had seemed so innocuous in her head. The doctor was a war veteran, she had assumed that he had probably seen a therapist about it, but she wasn’t sure what the boundaries were. Was it okay to ask about that? She didn’t know about these things, and the words had just tumbled thoughtlessly from her lips. Had she just crossed a major line? “I--um--never mind, it’s just, sorry…”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Thankfully, there was no ire in those deep eyes of his. The question had surprised him more than anything, and his expression warped in an attempt to mask the sheepish sheen in his gaze. “I guess it depends, really. I don’t always like telling someone all those kinds of things, but I end up going back anyway...guess it’s just kinda nice to have a place to take that stuff. You know, that isn’t here or in your head.”

“Yeah.” The syllable was quick on her tongue, barely processed by her brain before it huffed out of her mouth. Her cheeks still burned from her thoughtless inquiry, but Dr.Watson wasn’t too disturbed by it, from what she could tell; at least, he wasn’t angry. His calm expression was ticked with a wince of uncomfortable memories for a moment, which he quickly amended with a twitch of his hand into a fist. Alexis turned to her tea again with a twinge of guilt; it was cool now, at least. She could shove her face into the opening of the cup and try to hide her embarrassment.

“Would just be a matter of finding somebody. They’re supposed to keep their mouths shut, but you never know.”

“I’m sure Mycroft would volunteer. He seems to consider himself an expert on what’s in my head.”

“He thinks he knows what’s in everyone’s head.” Dr.Watson shook his head indignantly. “He definitely doesn’t need his grubby fingers anywhere near this.”

“Well, good luck with that,” Alexis replied weakly, gripping the warm cup with both hands to feel the fading heat in her palms. Something about “no” and the Holmes siblings didn’t resonate well. Telling them not to do something just came off as a challenge to them. Mycroft especially didn’t like lack of control, which worked in nicely with his choice of career. He had the initiative to influence everything, and the resources to do it.

“You don’t seem convinced.”

“I’m pessimistic lately. Kinda been in a funk.”

“I probably would be too, if Mycroft tried to bully me around. Like I said, I can handle him, don’t you worry.”

Alexis raised her eyes skeptically. “All due respect, don’t do anything stupid. No need to poke the bear and get scratched yourself.”

Dr.Watson barked a laugh. “Bear? Please, don’t flatter him. I’m a thorn in his side, anyway, so it’s nothing I’m not already doing.” He braced his hands on the arms of his chair and rose from his chair with a grunt. “Besides, it’s one of the few perks of having to see his mug on a regular basis. Gotta have my fun somehow.”

Alexis smiled into her steam, letting the liquid brush against her lips. She jerked suddenly as the phone in her lap began to shake, the motion basking her upper lip with a thin veil of moisture. With a grimace she lowered the cup irritatedly from her lips and glared to the phone in her lap, which continued to quiver. The muscles of her thighs tensed beneath it; someone was calling her, the screen bright against the fabric. She didn’t recognize the number though--it flashed as a medley of numbers across the screen persistently. Her frown deepened as she hesitantly wrapped her fingers around it, lifting it to get a better look. In front of her, she could hear Dr.Watson pause as his eyes fell skeptically to the phone as well. “Who’s calling you at this hour?” he asked shortly.

“I dunno.” Alexis’ voice was low in her mouth. Memories of her last phone call hung heavily in her head; she didn’t think this was the same number that had called her in the morgue, but she couldn’t be sure. Her palm started to sweat against the battered edge of the phone case. “No one that I recognize.”

Dr.Watson’s eyes narrowed at the expression on the girl’s face; in her distraction, her face had hardened with nerves. “Probably a spam call anyway. Just ignore it.”

“A spam call on a phone that Mycroft Holmes set up?” Her grip tightened on the device. “Seems like a big hole in his system.”

“Well, he probably doesn’t realize all the problems us mortals have. Probably just forgot.” He hoped that sounded more convincing in the air than it did in his head. His jaw clenched as her thumb brushed across the screen, hovering over the green answer key. “If it’s so important, they’ll leave a voicemail.”

“Yeah.” Alexis raised her eyes as she lowered her phone to her lap, where it stilled into silence after one final shiver. The pad of her index finger traced across the roughened surface of the casing. Meeting the doctor’s gaze again, she gave a small half-smile that she tried to convince herself looked genuine. “Telemarketers, can’t escape them anywhere.”

Dr.Watson hummed in quiet agreement and tossed the newspaper into the seat of his chair. He shuffled towards the kitchen again as Alexis glanced back to the phone in her lap with a frown. This was stupid--was she going to huddle in fear every time she got a phone call now? The fear that had solidified in her veins suddenly dissipated, leaving behind a growing sense of shame in its wake. She clicked the phone to life and forcefully activated the voicemail extension. The automated voice clucked quietly under the muted volume, announcing the arrival of a message that she already knew was there. Inhaling slowly, she pressed her lips tightly. It wasn’t what she feared it was, she told herself. No dark-eyed, minty-breathed monsters calling her again. No more videos, no more screams, no more jolting memories that would refresh in her nightmares tonight. Just another human person, another silly misunderstanding...right? Her thumb paused over the button as the familiar anxious tingle rose in her throat again.

 _Coward_ , she hissed in her head, fingers strangling the phone in her hold. _You pathetic, sniveling, whiny coward!_ A surge of indignation burned in her chest, right on cue; it felt juvenile, but being angry was a better option that being afraid, and the only way she knew how to fight it. She chastised herself for her reluctance; this wasn’t how she was going to get better. Dr.Watson wouldn’t have cowered away from something as simple as this. After all, if she wanted to be normal so damn badly, then she’d have to work for it. She jammed the button firmly, and with an exhale, she brought the phone underneath her hair to rest against the curve of her ear.

The device whirred in her ear as she tilted her head towards her lap, cradling her brow with the trips of her fingers as she breathed. The foggy tone clicked hollowly from the speaker as Dr.Watson wandered back into the room, pausing in the doorway at the sight of the girl hunched towards the phone under her veil of blonde tresses. He watched her expression carefully as her face fell bit by bit, her gaze sharpening as the muffled voice emitted from the phone. The seconds seemed painfully long as she listened; he couldn’t hear the words coming from the phone, but the hardened line of her mouth welled the familiar pit of nerves in his stomach. Suddenly the static ended, leaving the room in tense silence as she slowly lowered the phone from her face. “Everything okay?” the doctor asked tersely, the phrase clipping stiffly off of his tongue.

Alexis raised her eyes, turning the phone off with a click of a button. “You should probably get your coat.”

****

The glow of the Scotland Yard building should have been less distracting to her the second time around, but Alexis kept catching herself ogling the steel building as she struggled to walk in line with Sherlock down the sidewalk. At least this time she wasn’t alone---Dr.Watson seemed was practically jogging along with her to match his flatmate’s lengthy gait. By the look on his face, Alexis could only surmise he was used to this. She traced the edge of her phone in her pocket with lithe fingertips; she half-expected Inspector Lestrade to call back and tell her to go home, that it was a misdial, or that he had changed his mind and figured it out. Her heartbeat felt stiff in her chest; the paradigm had just shifted so suddenly. Since when did anyone address her so specifically for these kinds of things? Sure, it was an appreciated change; she had grown a little tired of people acting like her keepers. Still, after months of people talking to Sherlock or Dr.Watson or Mycroft over her head, something monumental must have happened to shift the focus so suddenly back onto her.

“Tell me again what Lestrade said,” Sherlock quipped back at her, barely turning her head.

“Sherlock, you listened to the message a hundred times over, were you not paying attention?”

“Indulge me, then.”

“You know it better than I do--they had an incident, somehow my name came up, they want to see if I can identify someone.” Alexis felt a sting of pride as the words were not as breathless as before--her lungs were getting stronger, at least. “What, not enough for your methods yet?”

“More would be appreciated,” Sherlock mused in irritation. Alexis narrowed her eyes.

“What, do you think I’m hiding something? I’m just as confused about this as you are.”

“I am not confused, I am processing,” Sherlock snapped back, his eyes flickering back quickly. He took in a breath to recompose himself. “Besides, like you could hide anything from me. It’s just a suspicious change in the Inspector’s usually predictable behavior, is all.”

“I guessed that much.” Her fingertips tightened around the phone again, which remained lifeless within her pocket. After all the fuss on keeping her at a safe distance from these things, now she was identifying suspects? Mycroft was going to throw quite a tantrum if he got wind of this.

“I mean, the Inspector can be jumpy, but usually he at least tries to put things together before hopelessly calling me in--”

“He didn’t call you in, he called me in,” Alexis cut in shortly. “You’re here to make sure I don’t get lost, remember?”

She’d be lying if she didn’t admit that the sour expression on his face wasn’t satisfying. She had spent enough cab rides feeling useless to not enjoy the chance of pace at least a little. The indignation in his features fell slightly as he gave a small, bemused shrug. “Yes, well, there’s no need for you to gamble about any more than you have to. You’re already coming out here to identify a potential stranger--knowing the Inspector, you most likely won’t recognize them.”

Alexis felt her throat tighten anxiously. Her eyes lifted carefully as she forced her dry tongue to raise from the bottom of her mouth. “What if I do?”

She felt her skin prickle as both men turned their gaze towards her. She immediately regretted asking--the gentleness of her voice betrayed the stream of fears blazing through her brain at who was potentially behind those glassy doors. Was it the man who captured her and left her bloody and pinned to the floor? Or was it someone from the Sayanara--a whole roster of faces came to mind, none of which she ever wanted to see again. Lestrade had made it sound like this person knew her specifically; that list was even smaller, and the thought of being in the same room with those people made her nerves sear in the urge to flee. The only thing keeping her rooted to the sidewalk was her own stubbornness--she couldn’t be the pathetic quivering mass on the couch anymore. She could at least pretend to be brave, if she wanted to fit in with this strange herd.

Dr.Watson cleared his throat roughly beside her as they reached the entryway, Sherlock slithering through the door as the two trailed behind him. The doctor’s hand raised a few inches from his hip in an aborted mission to reach out to the girl beside him before they followed their lanky flatmate inside. “You don’t have to do this,” he reminded her warily. “You wouldn’t be the first one of us to tell Greg to shove it.”

The humor was a nice touch, but it was shallow. She couldn’t decipher the look in his eyes--it wasn’t so much pity as it was concern. She gave a small, forced smile in return as she unzipped her jacket.

“I’ll be fine.”

With that, the two walked into the building in silence. The warmth blustered under Alexis’ opened jacket as she resisted the urge to sigh in relief. She may have been from the north, but the winter air here seemed especially bitter. Then again, she had never been underweight during this season before, so that may have had something to do with it. She had gained her appetite back, but the weight was slow to come back on; that, or she was just impatient, which was likely. As much as she was trying to resist it, some of Sherlock’s mannerisms were rubbing off on her. If she caught herself pressing her fingertips under her chin one of these days, she’d have to start following Dr.Watson to work just to get normalized again. A mindless grin twitched at her lips at the thought when a hand abruptly gripped her shoulder and pulled her to a stop. The fingertips dug into the flesh over her collarbone; she glanced up to see Sherlock watching her sternly. “Did you eat this morning?” he demanded sharply.

Dammit. She had to stop thinking around him--he had this annoying habit of reading her mind when she did. “Can that not wait?” she hissed back.

“That’s a no.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and shoved a hand into his pocket in search of something, coming to a halt. Alexis stopped with him with an incredulous glance to Dr.Watson. Sherlock gripped her wrist and shoved a wrinkled bill into her hand. “Vending machine. Go.”

“We don’t time for-!”

“It’s Lestrade, we have plenty of time.”

Alexis felt her face burn from embarrassment. Once again, she felt like a disobedient child being scolded--that didn’t take long to reappear. “I really think this can wait--”

“It’ll take all of five minutes. The Inspector rushed you out of the flat on short notice, and your stomach has been growling for the last fifteen minutes.” His grip tightened briefly on her limb as he locked eyes with her. “Now humor me and grab something to put in your face before that incessant gurgling in your gut drives me insane.”

Reluctantly, Alexis pulled away as Sherlock released his hold. Her mouth pulled into a disgruntled frown as she repressed a sigh between pursed lips and pushed past him. “Like you aren’t already,” she grumbled lowly, resisting the urge to glare over her shoulder as she walked away; she heard Dr.Watson’s terse voice mumble behind her, and she quietly hoped he was chastising his ridiculous flatmate. It wasn’t worth the effort to fight with Sherlock anymore, but she would appreciate having someone else on her side every once in a while. She glanced back to see the tails of Sherlock’s coat fluttering behind the banister of the staircase with Dr.Watson in apologetic pursuit. “And where are you two going?” she barked in protest.

Sherlock glanced to her lazily, barely slowing his pace up the stairs. “We’re off to find the Inspector. We’ll come back and get you.”

“You can’t wait five minutes? I’m the one he called here!”

“Which is why we’ll be back.” His voice trailed off as he galloped up the stairs, Dr.Watson in tow. The crowd swallowed them as chalky anger coated Alexis’ throat. She quelled the urge to run after them, lest Sherlock follow through on his standing threat to tie her to the railing with his scarf. No doubt that man knew some knots, and the last thing she needed was a leash. She crushed the wad of paper in her hand in frustration, the only act of defiance she could muster. The early afternoon was stirring in the hollowness of her stomach; the hunger irritated her more than anything. She couldn’t stand when he was right. A familiar aroma wafted into her nostrils from the trickling of pedestrian traffic beside her, and she turned towards the source without thinking. The warm air was salty in her nostrils; Chinese food, maybe, or Thai? Her eyes found the bright colored uniform of a deliveryman weaving through between people with papery boxes clutched to his chest, and her fingers slackened at the sight of familiar silver hair curling under the brim of a tattered ballcap.

His face seemed paler in the full light of day, but she’d recognize those features anywhere. Every detail that had escaped her in the hospital came roaring back to her, the clarity so intense that she wondered how she could have ever forgotten an inch of that face. The ballcap cast shadows over the jade eyes that had watched the drillbit dig into the flesh of her palm. His shoulders were weak in their sockets as he walked through the lobby; here he was just another stranger, harmless and unnoticeable. He had changed his clothes; the colors seemed almost flamboyant on him, considering what he’d done. The bravado that had smoothed his movements in the warehouse was tightly concealed behind an aging face flushed with the winter chill. He was nothing but wolf in sheep’s clothing, slipping silently between all these people while hiding that fanged smile behind thin lips.  

His eyes traced along with tile mindlessly for a while before lifting momentarily with a sniff of his nose. Alexis hadn’t realized how carefully she’d been staring; the heat of her gaze made his cheek twitch before he turned and met her eyes. Immediately he stopped mid-saunter with tensing shoulders. Whatever color had filled his cheeks drained in an instant at the sight of her; judging by the panic in his eyes, he seemed to think he was seeing a ghost. His stare traced from her face to the exposed wounds faded against her skin. It was only once he was sure that no one could walk through her that his form suddenly sprung back to life. The floor squeaked beneath his feet as he abrupt swung on his heels to face the door, and without a sound, he started to step towards the entryway with the white boxes still tucked in his arms.

Alexis blinked. For a moment, she wondered if she had hallucinated his appearance; how could he have the gall to show his face so soon? The wisps of gray curls bounced lightly from beneath the cap on his head as he walked, his stride lengthening hurriedly as he abandoned any attempt to disguise his discomfort. His stiff limbs sank with the weight of fear now. Alexis felt her own legs suddenly awaken, and without thinking she apprehensively stepped forward to follow him across the room. Perhaps she had seen wrong, but she had to see his face again to be sure; she’d never forgive herself if she just let that creature walk quietly out the door. Behind her, an indignant voice called out questioningly from the stairwell--evidently, they were upset that their lunch was currently headed back out to the sidewalk. The man didn’t even flinch at the irritation in their voice, instead lowering his forehead towards the floor as he pushed past a slow-moving group of people meandering in the lobby. Alexis wound between their shoulders as she trained her eyes on the terse back of her target.  Her heartbeat pounded as her step quickened; the distance between them shortened as she rushed to reach him before he slipped out the glass doors. The stitches of his uniform came into view as her gait widened, and she could practically smell the starchy odors from the fabric as it stretched over his wide shoulder-blades. He refused to turn around or even twitch in her direction, if he heard her approaching. The space between them shrank to the point where she could have lifted a hand and brushed him with her fingertips as the doorway became imminent. He reached for the handle of the door--this was her last chance. She strained to see his reflection in the doorway, and her stomach dropped as cold green eyes met hers in the glass.

With a violent start, the man ripped open the door and swung around to face her, stretching out his arms and grabbing her roughly by her shirt in angry fistfuls. The food in his arms dropped unceremoniously to the ground and slunk to the tile between rips in the greasy containers. His knuckles dug painfully into her collarbone as he lifted her onto her toes with a snarl, his hot breath threateningly bathing her face. The door braced against his foot as he threw her backwards; Alexis felt her limp body tumble to the floor like a doll from his brutish hands. Her neck strained to keep her head from smacking into the tile as the floor crushed the breath from her chest. She curled her limbs beneath her as she tried to hiccup air back into lungs, fumbling to lift her disoriented gaze as her head throbbed with screaming adrenaline. The pale daylight seared from behind his gray silhouette; his legs were tense in an urge to run, but he stood shaking in the gaping doorway with ragged, whistling breaths. His darting eyes were wild as he watching her slowly stand up again, keeping her careful stare on him as he seethed; he seemed ready to lunge at her throat. “You little bitch,” he hissed lowly, his voice rising in feral rage with every word. “You stupid, stubborn, worthless little bitch!”

The last word echoed throughout the lobby menacingly. The voices nearby quieted suddenly, and the air felt still. Alexis achingly straightened her vertebrae; even an inch too far, and the man seemed like he would snap. His fists gleamed white at his sides. “You’ve ...ruined... _everything_ ,” he growled again. She could see spittle settle into the cracks of his chapped lips. “Couldn’t just die like a normal person, could you? You had to put yourself through all that misery just to tamper with a perfect process. _Now_ what is he gonna find, huh? A puddle of blood and a broken floorboard? Took away his fun, didn’t ya, you greedy little whore!” His shoulders heaved in the effort as he locked his stare on her face. “You were going to be the prologue to something _wonderful_! The last step, the tension-builder, the tragic sweetheart to these stupid sheep before the last, beautiful finale! Everything was done was carefully, so artfully...and then _you destroyed it_!”

Alexis carefully shifted her weight onto her back heel; the muscles in her back churned in pain from their collision with the unforgiving tile. It felt like she had been standing there for hours now; was anyone going to intervene? He was so close--too close--and yet she felt rooted in place. Why wasn’t he running? He still had the chance to escape back into his hiding; the police would never catch him if he slipped into the streets, but instead he opted to declare his rage quite literally on their doorstep. His mouth suddenly curled ferally, and Alexis realized why; he valued winning more than his freedom. She had taken his victory, and to him, that was unforgivable. She heard shuffling behind her, but those people would never reach her in time. Her limbs tensed in anticipation to defend herself as his hands raised dangerously. Like a scorpion’s tail, his body snapped forward before a deafening crack split the air.

The next second seemed to slow. A spray of blood arced from his forehead as something warm struck Alexis’ chest like shrapnel. A sharp whistle hissed past her ear, searing the cartilage as it passed. The man tumbled lifeless to the floor, barreling into her with his momentum and dragging both of them back to the floor. Behind her, a woman screamed, her voice shrill and raw. A heavier heat pressed into her ribs now; the weight of his body pinched her diaphragm painfully, and she couldn’t keep her scalp from striking the floor this time. Pain clouded her head like static. The air burst with voices now, although they were all incomprehensible to her: they were just buzzing, urgent sounds. She freed her hands from her sides and gripped the man’s shoulders. He was motionless now--his slack mouth hung open in an empty roar. As the noise in her head quelled, it struck her suddenly that the outburst from the room was one of fear--that didn’t seem right. She glanced around the room quickly, her hair sticking to the lines of her face from the beads of nervous sweat that had congealed there. A chill ran through her heart as she realized that no one in the room had their gun drawn. She turned her eyes back to the man draped clumsily over her, and the gore of his skull caused her ribs to tighten. Beneath the crimson bloom of flesh, the bones of his forehead were shattered; the bullet had come from behind.

Alexis urgently squirmed out from beneath him, struggling to toss the corpse off of herself. She drew in hoarse breaths in an attempt to keep herself calm. She didn’t dare glance down at the mess on her shirt; she could feel the heat of blood and uncomfortably solid morsels that pressed through the fabric against her skin. The bullet must have just missed her, now safely burrowed into the floor behind her. That was either wild luck or incredible precision, and she had an idea of which one it was. She had heard that familiar sound all too often. Her eyes slowly lifted to survey the buildings outside; she wasn’t sure what she hoped to see, but she knew all too well what was there. Her hands shook at the thought, and immediately her heartbeat wrenched into her throat.

The sound of footsteps behind her barely registered over the anxious hum of people trying to process the gruesome sight. Alexis turned to see Dr.Watson running down the stairs towards her while Sherlock and Lestrade lagged behind. The doctor was going to reach her first; she certainly was an alarming sight to anybody, let alone a medical professional. Her eyes widened in a sudden realization that seared in her tendons. “No, stay back!” she shouted, taking a hesitant step back. He couldn’t come over here, not now. Pure fear surged like bile in the back of her mouth. Her voice cracked from the desperation. “ _JOHN, STAY BACK!_ ”

The sound of his first name made the doctor pause; her shriek echoed across the floor in a tone he hadn’t heard her emit before. Her face was tight with panic, and the whites off her eyes shone brightly in the weak winter light. He came to a reluctant halt just in time to see a small red dot illuminate the flushed skin of her cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this! Please let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy the next chapter!
> 
> Writing this has been fun and also helped me better appreciate the depth of these characters, so I'm hoping to keep working on writing and exploring them accurately.


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